The Truth Will Out
by TomC
Summary: An Alex Rider Adventure. Set after "Scorpia Rising"; so, spoilers. MI6 has finally agreed to leave Alex alone. Now, his happiness only depends on maintaining the worst-kept secret in the international intelligence community.
1. Coming to America

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Coming to America**

Alex watched the lane markers pulse by hypnotically. He pulled his attention away from the road with some effort. "Not to play to stereotypes, but... are we there yet?" he asked.

Edward Pleasure harrumphed. "He speaks. It's... oh, another twenty minutes on the interstate, then another twenty or so from the exit."

Alex had been a little worried when their plane had been diverted from San Francisco International due to fog, but even Scorpia couldn't control the weather. Still, he had been appreciative when Edward decided to rent a car and drive home, rather than accepting the layover. He had felt uneasy, as if he were in enemy territory. He tried to stretch a bit within the confines of his seat belt to loosen up his stiffening muscles. They had already been on the road for almost two hours, after the long trans-Atlantic flight. "The highway seems to go forever."

The older man chuckled. "They say that's how you can tell an Englishman from an American."

"Pardon?"

"Well, an Englishman thinks a hundred miles is a long way, while an American thinks a hundred years is a long time."

Edward glanced over to observe that he'd earned a rueful smile from the boy. Perhaps it was sinking in just how from London he had come. Alex descended back into silence for a minute, before he asked, "Do you suppose this is a bad idea?"

"What is a bad idea?"

"You... my coming to live with you."

"Now, Alex, we've been through this. You're like family to us."

"Exactly why it's a bad idea. I'm just putting you in danger." Alex turned towards the driver, trying to impress upon him the urgency of his concern. "The... people... who killed Jack, they... they did it just to hurt me. They were planning on killing me anyway the next day. They did it... just because they could. I don't think Sabina's role in the Cray incident ever made it back to... those people _(bloody OSA)_... but I can't know that for certain. And you are very publicly linked to Cray through your book. It's asking a lot to think that just because the government forced you to imply that Cray was working alone that you're not on... those people's... radar. I don't _think_ that they know how I came to be on Air Force One; the only direct link between Cray and... his backers... died at Heathrow. I have reason to believe that he did not report back to his superiors. But I... just don't know for certain."

"Listen to me, Alex. I don't know how you came by Cray's software - and as investigative journalist, it's killing me not to ask - but I know you saved my daughter's life, that you risked your own life to save hers. And you saved my life and hers in Scotland. You _have_ to come live with us; you're responsible for us."

"Excuse me?"

"The Native Americans have a tradition that if you save someone's life, you become responsible for how that person spends their life. You have to come and make sure we don't squander your gift."

Alex tried to imagine being responsible for the tens of thousands (hundreds of thousands?) of lives that he had saved. It was a bit nauseating to think about. He dropped his head against the headrest. Edward thought he had won his point. "It will work. We'll make it work."

"Just... if there's any indication that... there's any danger, I'm going to contact Mrs. Jones and insist she find me a new situation." Edward grunted noncommittally, but he thought to himself that Alex never sounded more like a little lost boy.

* * *

Edward pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. "And we're here." Alex paused a moment before sliding out the passenger door. Edward popped the boot – '_trunk', I have to start blending in_ thought Alex – and the teen grabbed his bags before the older man could limp to the back of the car. Alex looked up at the Pleasures' Queen Anne Victorian. Even with all the lights blazing on the first floor, it somehow it seemed more forbidding than he remembered it from his Easter holidays with the family.

The front door opened before they reached it, and soon Mrs. Pleasure was ushering them inside. "Oh, dear, look at you." "You must be tired." She fluttered around Alex, quite unlike her normally unflappable self. She spared her husband only the briefest kiss. Alex turned to the stairs and saw Sabina standing two steps from the bottom.

"Oh, Alex." She came to him, clasping his hands. "I'm so sorry about Jack. She was amazing." He took a sharp breath. Suddenly, the pain of the loss that he had been holding at bay came crashing down once again. Sabina stepped in for a hug, and laid her head against his chest. "I'm so, so sorry."

They held the embrace for a minute, as Alex regained his composure. Softly, Sabina said lightly "When did you get so tall?"

"Oh, thank god!" Alex exclaimed. Sabina pulled back to look into his face. "What…?"

"I didn't want to say anything…. but I thought you were shrinking!" he said with a small smile.

"Oh, you," she said with pursed lips, hitting his arm lightly. "You don't get to scare me like that."

They moved to the kitchen where Liz offered Alex and Edward a light supper, and soon packed Alex off to his new room.

* * *

Alex spent the next couple of days getting over his jet lag and sharing memories of Jack with Sabina. With a boy's straightforward approach to getting things done, Alex had assumed that arranging Sabina's visit to London and Alex's Easter visit to San Francisco had been a matter of exchanging schedules and flight numbers. But apparently the conversations had gone much further afield than that.

Much of it seemed to have been focused on embarrassing anecdotes about Alex. Alex had tried to bury the memories of cooking Ian's birthday meal all by himself when he was nine. Apparently, Jack had been keeping a close eye on what was going on in the kitchen. It had been one of the few times that Alex had not been overly disappointed when Ian canceled at the last moment. Jack and Alex had sat down to the meal "so it wouldn't go to waste." They had ended up eating Indian takeaway.

Each story lightened the weight on Alex's heart. It helped to know that someone else remembered Jack as fondly as he did. When Ian had died, Alex had only been back to school for a few days before he was whisked off to Wales for training. By the time he came back, his mates at Brookland had been more focused on his "illness" than his loss. Even if they had been so inclined, few at the school would have had more than a faint recognition of a face they may have seen along the sidelines of the soccer pitch, even then just for the waning minutes of a game.

This – this felt like a proper good-bye. Not a soulless funeral surrounded by people he had never met, spouting vague platitudes that did not connect to the person he knew. He would have liked to have attended Jack's funeral, but he had still been recovering at the safe house. Maybe it was for the best; Alex would not have liked having to feed Jack's parents evasions and half-truths. Jack deserved better than that.

Tom probably had his own trove of stories about Jack, but somehow he couldn't imagine sitting down and reminiscing with the other boy. It would be too much like talking about "feelings" – not something either teen was especially keen to do. Tom was still processing the news himself. Alex had not been willing to contact Tom from the MI6 safe house. It was all too likely that they would be monitoring all communications into and out of the remote manor house. He hadn't trust Tom to be discrete enough under such close scrutiny. Certainly not when faced with such dire news. Alex still maintained hope that MI6 was not aware of Tom's inside knowledge of Alex's circumstances.

On the fourth day in the Pleasures' home, Alex went on a long walk with Sabina to the Presidio. The found a secluded spot where they could still see the Golden Gate Bridge. "Alex," Sabina said, breaking the companionable silence, "school starts in a few days. Maybe we should get away for a few days. Go surfing, or do one of the hikes that we did when you were here last time. Or perhaps…." She paused, and then finished in a slight rush, "Or perhaps, you would like to meet my friends?"

When Alex had been preparing to leave England, he would not have been able to imagine facing new people in a social situation, but this interlude with Sabina and her parents had been a great restorative. After the barest pause, he responded, "Yeah, yeah. I think that would be good to have a few familiar faces around when it is time to start back to class. What are you thinking?"

"Well, my friend Emily is having a Labor Day BBQ. Sort of a goodbye-to-summer thing…"

"That sounds good," Alex responded, nodding.

"So… how do I introduce you?"

"Your father didn't tell you? Allow me to introduce myself, … I'm Alex Pleasure."

"What? So, you're my long-lost brother?" Sabina questioned in a weak voice.

"Wha-? No, no I haven't been _adopted_. It's just… well, MI6 thought it best if I didn't parade around using my own name. And with the same name as the rest of the household… well, people would assume that-"

"That we were brother and sister. That's just great," she muttered, shaking her head. "I was hoping to introduce you as… as my boyfriend."

A feeling of heat blossomed in his chest. Within moments, he was sure his checks were flushed. "There's no reason… no reason not to. Look, people who want to talk behind your back are going to do so, no matter what. What's the alternative? That you're living with your boyfriend?" He waggled his eyebrows at her, earning a smile.

Sabina sighed. "You're right. Besides, you've faced madmen bent on taking over the world; I can handle some gossip."

It was Alex's turn to sigh. "I've faced both. In some ways, the gossip is harder."

He leaned back on his elbows. "So… boyfriend, huh?" He smiled, the first smile that really reached his eyes since he had arrived. It didn't last long. He sat back up and dangled his hands on his knees. "I tried to tell your father how dangerous it was to have me around. He was having none of it... You were there on Air Force One. You've seen the face of madness. I won't insult you by suggesting you don't understand the danger."

"But you know there is another, more pedestrian danger. We've only been together in fits and starts." He paused, looking for a way to explain himself. "Do you know I was in _Grease_ at Brookland?" Sabina looked confused at the sudden pivot in the conversation.

"Um, no?... Were you any good?"

"I'll never know, I was pulled out and sent to Cairo after... after a sniper attack on my school."

"Oh! Alex!" Sabrina gasped, reaching for his hand.

Alex held her hand in both of his. "But that's not what I was getting at. Are you familiar with the musical?"

"Kind of. I mean, I've seen it on TV, but I really didn't give it my full attention."

"Well, the opening number is called _Summer Lovin'_. Actually, come to think of it, they sort of ripped it off for the beginning of _High School Musical_. Two people fall in... in love when they are far from home, away from friends, away from their routines and expectations..."

Sabina looked a little pained. "So, you don't...?"

Alex realized what she thought he was saying. "What? No! No, that's not what I was... I didn't... I just mean that we've had some wonderful holidays together, but you've never seen me in 'real life'." He sighed. "I've never had a girlfriend. I don't know that I'll be a good boyfriend - and you can't go home to get away from me. I know I spend a lot of time thinking about Jack. Plus, MI6 was not my only source of trouble. I have to admit that I tend to be more curious than any ten dead cats. It's not healthy for the people around me."

Sabina brushed the dirt off her hands, and stood up. "Without MI6 in the equation, curiosity is not normally a fatal condition. But, I take your point. We'll need to carve out some time to spend with our friends. Don't worry, we'll make it work."

"That's what your father said."

"Really? Well, if you're going to go out with him, too, then we have a problem..." Chuckling, he took her hand and helped himself to his feet.

* * *

Once Sabina's friend Emily had learned that she was bringing Alex, the small get-together got a bit larger. Emily knew that Alex was coming in as a sophomore, so she let her younger brother invite a few of his friends.

Trying to be more sociable than he really felt, Alex was already on edge as he passed through the gate to the backyard where the barbeque was set up. The hostess put down her drink and swept over to the arriving couple. "Sabina! I'm so glad you could make it. And this must be Alex! We finally get to meet the great hero!"

Alex's head snapped to the side to look at Sabina, a faint look of horror on his face. Sabina's brow was furrowed, a look of confusion on her face. Emily looked back and forth at the two of them, and continued, "The car accident?"

Alex's heart was hammering. With this last comment, the image of Jack's car exploding came into sharp focus in his mind. His gorge started to rise as he noticed the other guests attracted by the host's exuberance. This was the "car accident" that was going to explain his need for a new guardian and provide a cover story for some of his many scars.

"Car accident?" Alex managed after a moment.

Emily added, a bit bemused, "The plunge into the icy lake? Surely, you haven't forgotten saving Sabina's life?"

"Oh…. That."

"'Oh, that,' he says. Mr. Modest." Alex suddenly realized that he had never asked Sabina if she had confided in any of her friends about France, Wimbledon, Cray, any of it…. Alex had had Tom. Had Sabina told any of these people? Alex scanned the faces, looking for something – a knowing glint in the eye, a tighter scrutiny… He suddenly felt very exposed. Then Sabina entwined her fingers in his and he determinedly forced himself to relax.

Emily's exuberance had attracted the other guests. Emily introduced Alex around, until she came to a knot of boys that had been standing somewhat apart from the rest of the group. "And this is my brother, Spike, and his friends. Actually, 'Spike' was the dog's name—"

With a roll of the eyes and a long-suffering sigh, Spike interrupted. "We never had a dog. She's been saying that ever since she saw _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_. It's nice to meet you, Alex. Hi, Sabina. You look nice." Spike barely took his eyes off Sabina to greet Alex.

"Thank you. Alex, these guys are going to be sophomores, too."

One of Spike's friends jumped in. "Did you really save Sabina's life?"

"Well—" After months of keeping the details of his life close to his chest, his first instinct was to deflect the questions and retreat back into the shadows. But he looked over at Sabina and realized that… that they were together now…. If he retreated into the shadows, he would be taking her with him. "Yeah, I guess I did. Actually, she swam out on her own power. But I did get her dad out. He was unconscious."

They looked impressed. Alex was uncomfortable with the limelight, so he added, "But I was just paying her back. She saved my life when we were surfing. That time I was the one that was unconscious. She dragged me out of the water and gave me the kiss of life." Spike's eyes went round at that.

"Well, if we're keeping score—" Sabina started. Alex didn't like where this was going, so he talked over her. "But the Pleasures are giving me a place to live, so that sort of trumps everything."

The boys wanted the details of the escape from the submerged car. Again, Alex fought the urge to downplay the event. This time he thought of all the little lessons that he absorbed from Ian. His uncle had never sat him down and said "Here, I'm going to teach you to escape from a sinking car." But all the information had somehow seeped in. And knowing what to do had been the difference between escape and panic – and death. He told the story, stressing all the practical details that saved their lives. He saw Sabina shudder and back away with a faint smile. He also saw Spike watch her leave.

"- so make sure you don't hold your breath, or you could damage your lungs. Just hum."

"What about the bends?" Spike asked.

"We weren't down long enough for the gas to work its way into our blood. But good question. Are you a diver?"

"Me? No, but I watch the National Geographic channel."

They asked about the surfing incident. Alex described being cut off by the jet ski dropping into his line. He neglected to mention the man was trying to kill him.

"So, how do you like America so far?" one of the boys asked. Alex thought he was named Sam. "Are you here as part of a cultural exchange?"

The way the other boys immediately froze, looking anywhere but at him, told Alex everything he needed to know about how much _they_ knew. "No. No, I've come to live with the Pleasures permanently. Um, my guardian died and they offered to take me in."

"Your _guardian?_" Sam asked wide-eyed. _Might as well get it all out now, _thought Alex.

"Yeah, my uncle died about a year and a half ago."

"Your _uncle?_ What about your parents?" It was unclear whether there was a filter between Sam's brain and mouth. From the expressions on the other boys' faces, it _was_ clear that this was his normal behavior.

Alex looked down. "My mum and dad died when I was a baby," he said softly.

"Jeez, dude. It sucks to be you. Ow!" Spike slapped Sam in the stomach with the back of his hand. "What?"

"Don't you ever know when to shut up?" Spike questioned a little heatedly.

"No, it's OK," Alex assured him. But he was still anxious to change the subject. "So, what's the school like?"

They chatted for a bit about the school. He was pleased to find that he would not have to wear a uniform. Of course, this meant that he would have to figure out what the unofficial uniform was. He really didn't want to stand out any more than he would as the new, foreign kid. But this was the States, he could probably just get away with jeans and t-shirts. He would have to remember to ask Sabina's advice.

It turned out that Spike and Sam were on the JV soccer team. "JV?" asked Alex. Spike answered, "Junior varsity. Um, second string? I don't know how you would say it." It turned out that the coach didn't play many sophomores on the varsity team. "I'm not fooling myself, though. There's no way I'm making varsity this year. Do you play? I thought all Europeans were crazy about soccer."

"Yeah, I play. But I'm a bit off my game, haven't played in a while. My family situation…"

"Well, try-outs are the second week of school. We're already having unofficial practices. If you want to try out, you need to have your sports physical filled out…"

This burst Alex's enthusiasm. He could just imagine the results of a physical. With his luck, Child Services would get called in for suspected abuse… "I don't know. Maybe I should how well I settle in with my academics. I don't know how well my curriculum in England meshes with yours here."

The conversation moved on. Alex slowly began to relax. He liked Sabina's friends. For the first time, he could really imagine settling down and living life as a typical teenager.

* * *

As evening arrived, Alex and Sabina were helping Emily clean up from the party. "So, Alex," started Emily, "Sabina tells me you are a pretty good tennis player. Are you going to be joining the team?"

"What, me? No, I don't play competitively."

"Now, Alex," Sabina responded kiddingly, "you always play competitively. You've just never played on a team."

"Huh. I thought you guys met at Wimbledon? You don't have to be a tennis player to qualify as a ballboy? Sorry, ball_person_."

Alex looked to Sabina for help; he had no idea how a civilian got to be in the program. Sabina took the question. "Actually, you just need to be fit, and know the rules. They train you. My school supplies a lot of the ballboys. It was quite the thing to do."

Emily cocked her head at Alex, "But you didn't go to Sab's school, right?"

The boy realized that the truth wasn't going to hurt him, so he admitted, "Actually, my uncle's co-worker was on the All-England - you know, Wimbledon - board. He, er, knew my uncle had died, and he thought of me when a slot became available. I figured what the hell."

"And so you met Sabina. I hope you said 'thank you' to him."

Alex grimaced. "You know, the thought never occurred to me." Sabina and he shared knowing smiles.

* * *

In a basement half a world away, a man hoisted a file box onto a plain table beneath a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He pulled a number of thick files from the box and slapped them on the table in turn. He arranged each so that he could see the labels: _Sayle Industries_, _Point Blanc Academy_, _Alexei Sarov_, …

With a sigh, he began working his way through the first file.

* * *

Mrs. Marsden, the guidance counselor, opened the file in front of her. "Let's see what we have here…hmmm…hmmm. Well, my goodness, you have quite the gift of tongues. We struggle to get most students excited with learning a second language. Have you decided which language you are going to take? We offer Spanish, French and Chinese."

"Well, I'm already fluent in Spanish and French…"

"We could put you in a senior class. The Advanced Placement class in each language would be studying literature. _Don Quixote_ and _Les Miserables_, I believe." _Great,_ thought Alex_, a choice between hopeless quests or abject misery… just what I need._

"I'd really prefer to stay with my form… er, class. Perhaps, I could try Chinese."

"We have a number of sophomores who will be starting Chinese this year, but a large portion of the class will be freshman. Is that OK?"

"I think so. Will it be a problem if I change my mind later?"

"Oh, no. With your gift for languages, you really should consider a future in foreign relations!"

Alex exerted enough self-control to keep from snorting, but he couldn't restrain his sarcasm. A bit bitterly, he said, "Not likely. I'm a walking international incident."

The counselor was puzzled by both the tone and content of the comment. "Whatever do you mean?"

Bitterness building on bitterness, he muttered, "I don't think I can explain." _Not without violating the Official Secrets Act._

"No, no," the matronly woman pressed. "I'd really like to see the world through your eyes."

Alex suppressed a shudder. "The last person who wanted _that,_ meant it literally," he said through gritted teeth.

In a pedantic tone, Mrs. Marsden said, "Oh, Alex, 'literally' means—" Alex cut her off. "I know what 'literally' means." He took a moment, then added a little more politely, "I'll try to choose my words more carefully in the future."

"Oookay." She wasn't sure what was going on behind those serious brown eyes, but it was clear that the topic had been closed. She continued looking through his file. Together, they made a few adjustments in his schedule. "Thank you for coming in, and we look forward to seeing you when school opens on Monday."

* * *

**A/N: OK, this is my second fan fiction, and my first multi-chapter one. Reviews are welcome, but I'm horrible about reviewing others', so I'm not going to throw stones. My only shortcoming in writing is dialog. Oh, and pacing. And plotting. And exposition. And characterization. But I'm fairly decent at punctuation and spelling (except I'll probably forget to use British spellings where appropriate). OK, I'm bad, but at least I'm slow - that should spread out the trauma.**

**I've got several chapters roughed out, and I have a pretty decent idea where I want the story to end up. I'm determined not to be one of those authors that let's the story peter out... But I'm not a fast writer, so please bear with me.**


	2. Threat Assessment

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Threat Assessment**

Agent Glenn entered the deputy director's anteroom and noted the closed door. Turning to the secretary, he said "He asked for these reports. Perhaps I could just leave them with you?" _And maybe get home in time to see the girls before they go to bed, for once this week._

"Oh, he should just be a few minutes –", she started to reply, when the door opened. "—or less," she finished with a half-smile. "He's expecting you." Glenn waited for several somewhat haggard agents to file out of the office before presenting himself.

"Marty, good. I've got a few minutes before my next conference call." Joe Byrne drained the last of his coffee before dropping the cup in the trash on the way back to his desk.

"Sir, I've got those expense numbers for the South American ops last quarter. They're in line with projections – I don't think they'll raise any eyebrows on Capitol Hill."

"Good, good," Byrne murmured as he leafed through the executive summary.

"Actually," continued the agent, "as I was going through the numbers, it led me to run a regression analysis on some of the intel we're getting out of Colombia. I have some ideas on how to put a crimp in the drug cartel's cash flow. Probably not enough to cause serious problems with their suppliers, but if we were actively monitoring bank transfers in real time, we should at least get some insight on their money laundering operations. Permission to forward this on to the DEA?"

"Hmm," grunted the Director. "Ready to enlist in the War on Drugs? The War on Terror isn't keeping you busy enough?"

"I spent less than an hour on it," Glenn responded a little defensively. "I would make it clear that they needed to re-run the numbers themselves. The raw data was theirs to begin with – we wouldn't be revealing any of our sources." He knew the Director wasn't making a serious criticism, but it was late and he was tired…

"Fine. Run with it." Byrne pulled the second file towards himself. "And this?"

"That's the Alex Rider analysis you asked for. If you recall, the analysts were tasked with determining 1) whether Rider is still a target, 2) whether he is still working for MI6 and 3) likelihood of being able to recruit him – now or in the future."

"And?" asked Byrne, as he broke the seal on the file.

"Rider has been living in San Francisco with Edward and Elizabeth Pleasure and their daughter Sabina for almost two weeks. The report notes that one or more the Pleasures were in close proximity to Rider during multiple assassination attempts on the boy – at Wimbledon, in Cornwall, in the south of France, on Air Force One in London, and in Scotland."

"Scotland?"

"Yeah, just got that from our friends in Indian intelligence – not through official channels, mind you. There's an after-action report in the file, if you're interested. They had an agent on the scene. The same agent who gave his life providing Rider support in Kenya – part of the Desmond McCain affair."

"Hmm. Didn't realize things had warmed up that much between them and the Brits. I had to call in a number of chits with Blunt to spring Rider for the Skeleton Key op."

"We're trying not to read too much into it. There's a greater than 60% chance that they weren't working in close coordination. We haven't been able to get a straight answer out of the Brits how McCain got on their radar. The timing of certain key events don't line up. Because of the nuclear plant incident, the Indians had McCain in their sights independently. Probably a coincidence."

"… coincidence … conspiracy … to-may-to .. to-mah-to …" murmured Byrne.

"Anyway," Glenn continued, "the analysts wasted a lot of paper evaluating whether the Pleasures are actually deep cover MI6 agents. There is credible evidence that the husband was the primary target in the attempt in France. The girl is reported to have resuscitated Rider after the failed attempt in Cornwall. And of course, she somehow ended up on Air Force One. We only have the boy's word that she was only there as bait. It was her fingerprints on the abort button, after all. There is no evidence that Rider was ever in the communications cabin or the cockpit. And, given the circumstances, we can't discount her based on age."

"While Pleasure has been noticeably successful as an investigative journalist, we have, uh, taken a peak at his research notes. There is no evidence of any, um, non-traditional journalistic techniques. If they were able to fake the notes, I want MI6's budget for backstory documentation."

"So, I take it they're not a family of sleeper agents," the Director summed up dryly.

"The analysts finally rejected it at less than 5% likelihood. Based on this analysis, the report asserts that it is highly likely that Rider is not currently active with MI6."

"How is that supported?" Byrne asked, rubbing his eyes.

"The Pleasures are aware of his background. Edward is an investigative journalist. Even if he owes his life – and the life of his daughter – to Rider, it wouldn't seem to be the most prudent placement for an active covert agent."

"Does that argue against our being able to recruit him?" the Director mused.

The agent quickly countered, "The analysts downplayed that. Presuming that we successfully recruited him, we could set him up with different living arrangements for his down time. But that's not likely to become an issue." Byrne raised his eyebrows, encouraging him to elaborate. "Of course, we haven't been able to do a psych eval, but from what we've been able to piece together from a distance – plus what Jones at MI6 has said, and avoided saying – is that he would not be receptive to an offer. In fact, an offer now might sour him on any future efforts."

"Still grieving for – what was it – his housekeeper?"

"Uh, guardian. Or maybe more to the point, surrogate sister. But yes, it's partly grief. But if you look at the timeline between the death of his uncle, Ian Rider, and the death of Herod Sayle, Alex was on the clock immediately after his uncle's death. No, it's guilt. The analysts' consensus is that Rider feels his uncle made his own choices, but that it is his own fault that his guardian was killed." The agent snorted softly and shook his head slightly to indicate his own take on the unfairness of Rider's harsh self-assessment.

The deputy director gritted his teeth and shook his head. "If he just understood the magnitude of his achievements… What if we arranged a Congressional Medal of Honor?" He continued half to himself, "The records would have to be sealed, of course… which kind of dilutes the effect…"

"The analysts were not charged with proposing psycho-therapy," the agent cut in, "but personally, I think something in that line would be ashes in his mouth. Do more harm than good for our prospects of bringing him in eventually."

"Understood. So, the last piece of the puzzle. Is he still a target?"

"Well, Scorpia is in complete disarray. Interpol has made three major busts in the last month. Two more executive board members have been reported assassinated. Neither body has been definitively ID'ed, but the confidence level is high. Add this to the fact that people in that organization who take a personal dislike to Rider tend to end up dead…"

The agent continued after a pause. "But there's always the chance that some young buck has heard of Rider and wants to make a name for themselves by being 'the guy that killed the guy that killed Rothman, Yu, whoever' There's even a meme that he killed Gregorovich –"

"He didn't, right?" Byrne interjected. "I think that would have been reported to me."

"There was no GSR on Rider's hands or clothes. And his fingerprints were on the beverage cart, matching his story. Of course, there wasn't enough of Cray left to get more than a DNA match… No way of knowing if he was the shooter."

"But back to the threat assessment: it would be hard for an up-and-comer to stake his rep on killing a fifteen-year-old boy that most people have never heard of. And Scorpia gains nothing by publicizing Rider's successes."

"Hmm," the Director mused, "but an offshoot might. Think about it, they simultaneously humiliate the old guard within Scorpia, embarrass the Brits for endangering a minor, and drag us into it. The fact that it took a punk kid to protect SecState… that wouldn't play well in the halls of Congress – not to mention we launched him into space. Dammit!"

"What?" asked the slightly startled agent.

"I was played! Blunt played me! He offered up Rider too easily for the Skeleton Key mission. He was inoculating himself against us finding out about an underage operative on our own and getting squeamish. As a shared asset, we could never go public."

Glenn brought the conversation back to the topic at hand. "The report concludes that threat level is low, though non-negligible. But it does make the point that we can keep the lines of communication open by exaggerating the threat." The agent did not look entirely comfortable with this line of reasoning. _But it would probably work on the kid_, he admitted to himself.

"Careful," the Director warned, "my sense is that Blunt and Jones overplayed the 'I'll save you from the wolves, by throwing you in the shark tank' hand. Still, I think it makes sense to keep a dialog going, and offering our support is a great way to do it."

_Doesn't hurt that it's the decent thing to do,_ Glenn thought.

"I'd like to point out one complication, sir." The agent paused. He was going out on a limb here, because the analyst report did not really support his own personal interpretation. "I've read the mission reports in Rider's file, and there is a recurring pattern. His tactical and analytical support has been slipshod. I understand it took more than two days for the Brits to storm that clone school after Rider sent up the signal. When we sent him up to Ark Angel, we failed to consider that the station might be occupied. The list goes on."

"Your point?" the Director prompted impatiently.

"If we promise him support, we damned well better make sure that we can follow through. He's on domestic soil. If we charge in and it's a false alarm, heads will roll. But if we fail to respond in force, we'll alienate him forever. Or worst case, we fail to contain a real incident. Remember, we don't really have the resources in the Bay Area – certainly not for any sort of security detail, nor even a rapid response team."

"Now, listen," Byrne interrupted, "this is Silicon Valley we're talking about. We've got plenty of – what's the current term of art? _'industrial liaisons?'_ – in the area!"

Glenn didn't back down. "None that we would be willing to burn for a foreign asset– an inactive, underage, foreign national. Plus, most of those agents are not trained in counter-terrorism. They're one step up from desk jockeys themselves. Hell, most of them only go the firing range once a year to re-certify. Certainly not ready to face the kind of crap that will hit the fan, if somebody does come after Rider."

"So, do you have a recommendation?"

"Well, we could engage with another organization. The NSA has multiple field offices in the area. Mostly, for recruitment purposes, sure – you know how they say in Silicon Valley, if you shake a tree a venture capitalist will fall out? Well if you shake harder, an NSA recruiter will come tumbling after. Only place they're thicker on the ground is Wall Street. – But anyway, the NSA is prepared to conduct raids on companies that are suspected of selling restricted technology. They don't pack the kind of firepower you'd bring to a party with Scorpia, perhaps, but at least they're weapons-certified and they can approach a hot zone with some degree of stealth. Of course, they usually have a few days to plan a raid; I don't know how they'd do on short notice."

"No," Byrne said after a moment, "I'm not comfortable with reaching out to them just yet. I don't want to see Alex getting sucked into the Puzzle Palace. His life's complicated enough as it is. Besides," he added sarcastically, "if we change our minds, we can just start a rumor that Alex has invented an uncrackable crypto system, and NSA will have him in a safe house interrogation room by the end of the day."

"The FBI is out, at least openly. An underage operative would freak them out. But I think we can thread the needle."

"How so?"

"Well, we do have a recruitment officer in the area who's worth a damn as a field agent – you remember Agent McDeere?"

"Frank? I thought he took disability retirement?"

"Maybe he did – for like a week. I'm sure he decided he'd go bonkers trying to learn to relax. Came back as a recruiter – turns out he actually enjoys connecting with snot-nosed brats. Even with his leg, he would have been accepted back at The Farm as an instructor in an instant. Hell, he was a Seal, he probably could have gotten a teaching position at Annapolis. I actually got the chance to chat with him last time I was out there. He says he likes to knock a little reality into the wide-eyed idealists – and inject a bit of the god-and-country fervor into the careerists. How'd he put it? 'So they know what to expect, and why it's expected of them.'"

"And you know Frank - he has great relations with other organizations... local law enforcement, FBI... I propose establishing McDeere as Rider's official contact at the Agency. We will flag Rider's and the Pleasures' records and make sure all inquiries are routed to my desk or Frank's. With their permission, I'll have Frank assess their security perimeter. In general, let them know that we are keeping an eye on them, without promising round-the-clock surveillance."

"And Frank has one other thing going for him: his partner."

"His partner?" Byrne turned to the recommendation page of the report. "Wait, a minute, let me... is that-?"

"Yes."

The deputy director gave a silent laugh. "Oh, perfect. It's fate. Make it so." He closed the report and put it on the burn pile.

The agent made for the door. "I'll have Frank let Rider know he's not in any immediate danger – but we've got his back."

* * *

Alex dodged the light post and turned sharply into the next alley. Pushing off the alley wall to complete the turn, he was able to keep going without losing momentum. His lungs were burning. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up this pace.

At this speed, he wasn't going to risk looking back. If he fell, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to get back up again. But from the sound of the footsteps behind him, he might have put some distance between himself and one or two of the others. That still left several guys pelting down the alley behind him. At the end of the alley, he shot across a narrow road into another alley just offset from the one he left. He stayed focused on keeping his feet, moving at a punishing pace. He tried to ignore the black dots dancing at the edge of his vision.

With a silent groan, he spotted the 10-foot chain link fence closing off the alley. He instantly calculated his attack plan. _Trash can … push off … dumpster … two steps … A/C window unit … humph_. Vaulting off the air conditioning unit sticking out into the alley, Alex grabbed the bracing on the underside of the overhanging fire escape and cleared the fence like a pole vaulter. Snapping his head forward, he landed on his feet and went into a forward roll to turn his downward momentum into renewed speed. He was just glad he didn't have time to examine whatever substance gave the alley its, um, _special_ aroma.

The plate glass window of the store front on the building across from the other end of the alley revealed a dim reflection of the scene behind him. The others swarmed over the fence like a black wave. _At least they're not shooting at me,_ thought Alex dryly. _Ugh, get your head back in the game_, mentally kicking himself. It would be too bitter to fail due to a lapse of attention this close to his destination.

There was one last major boulevard between his current location and that destination. At this time of day, he didn't dare trust to good fortune that he would magically find a break in traffic. Even the devil's own luck took a day off now and then. Fortunately, he knew that the parking structure on the next block straddled the boulevard. Ground level on this side was Level 2 – so up one level to Level 3, cross over the connector, down to street level on Level 1 – and he would only be one short block from Federal Plaza.

Hurdling the bushes (that were a wasted attempt to beautify the hulking structure), Alex was swallowed by the relative quiet of the parking garage. For a moment, there was just the sound of his own footfalls and the distant squeal of tires, but soon the sound of more running feet were added to the mix.

Alex was up the ramp in a flash, and quickly made his way to the connecting bridge. Crossing over the bridge, he realized the stairwell was too far off to the side of the building; he needed to keep moving in a straight line. He started down the ramp on the other side of the structure, while eyeing the gap between down ramp he was on and the upward ramp four feet away. Coming to a decision, he veered to the edge of the ramp. He sat on the low wall marking the edge of the ramp, and threw one leg and then the other over the edge.

Dangling over the three-story drop, Alex pushed off with his arms and legs while twisting to face the other side of the gap. Dropping a half-level, he frantically grasped the wall on the opposing side. His forearms took a bruising blow, but he quickly repeated the maneuver. _I'm mental!_, he grimaced to himself in pain. He was able to repeat the move in rapid succession, only pausing long enough to arrest his downward momentum. If there had been any witnesses, it would have looked like he was pinballing down the gap between the ramps in a virtual freefall.

Running down the last half ramp, he crossed the remainder of the parking structure and past the startled parking attendant. Ahead he could see the nearly empty Federal Plaza. He aimed himself towards the flagpole in front of the federal building. His lungs were crying out for more oxygen. His legs were burning with the effort.

Darting into the plaza, he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye, racing out of the shadows to his right. Then he saw another running figure to his left converging on his path. And now he could hear the footsteps behind him once again.

_So close!_ Alex tried to put on a burst of speed, but he had no more reserves to draw upon. But he wasn't going to give up; he pushed harder. The extra effort overbalanced him. The black spots at the edges of his vision were back. His arms and legs felt like lead. The two figures he had spotted earlier reached the flagpole at almost the same time, and turned as if to catch the stumbling Alex. Alex lost his fight with gravity and slid the last few feet, fetching up against the flagpole.

He was aware of the sound of the stampede behind him. Some lizard part of this brain was shouting _Move! Move!_ as he rolled away from the flagpole ahead of the arrival of the pack.

A rapid succession of metallic _tings!_ marked each racer's finish as they slapped the flagpole. Alex was still gasping for breath, and couldn't spare any attention the order of finish. Not that it really mattered much – he knew from his experience competing in previous parkour training runs of the San Francisco Parkour and Free Running Club that more time would be spent analyzing who had the best moves and had "flowed over the course" then who had actually finished first. Style points counted for a lot when determining bragging rights.

Not that Alex wouldn't have appreciated winning; he couldn't shake that competitive streak. Still, he had done much better than he had been expecting. Especially considering that he had come in dead last in his first run. But he had been doing better and better in the training runs, so it wasn't like he hadn't earned his third place finish.

"Lex Loser! You were awesome!" Billy crowed. If the SF Parkour Club were organized enough to have officers, Billy would probably be president. He was the glue that kept everyone coming back. The nicknames he gave all the runners were part of his shtick. No one had the gall to try and come up with a nickname for him, so he was just "Billy".

Quickly regaining his wind, Alex murmured his thanks. "Yeah, Little Man", Billy continued, "I think you've been playing possum. It's like you've been doing this all your life."

"Running like my life depended on it?" rejoined Alex. "Sometimes it feels like it." Alex recognized that he was a city boy, born and bred. Parkour training certainly made more sense than traipsing all over the Brecon Beacons, playing at wilderness scout. _I wonder why Ian didn't think of that? Couldn't find a parkour course that accepted 7-year-olds?_ The thought of his childhood of spy training turned his insides cold. His emotionless mask slid over his face.

"Ooh, the iron gate slams shut," chuckled Billy. "A minute there, I thought you were going to say something personal. Oh well, gotta keep up the international-boy-of-mystery mystique, I guess."

"Shag you, Billy." Alex replied with a grin, exaggerating the English accent he usually downplayed.

"Right-o, old chap. Again, good job today. Will we see you next week?" Billy asked the fifteen-year-old.

"Count on it."

Looking up at the federal building that most likely housed CIA offices, Alex suddenly just wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He grabbed his stuff from the club van and started the long trek back to the Pleasures for a shower.

* * *

**A/N: OK, I had two short chapters in hand that were in better shape than I remembered, and worked when slapped together. Don't get used to quick updates, however. I have some other partial chapters roughed out, but it is still a bit too choppy and/or jumbled. Thank you for reading, and for your reviews, alerts, and favorites. I feel honored.**


	3. Meet the Agents

**Meet the Agents**

Alex rode the bus back towards Sabina's house. He didn't get off at either of the two stops closest to their home. He had left his bike at a stop a couple of miles further away. This stop was near a skateboard park, so he didn't draw any attention when he left his bike locked up there.

Pedaling back home, Alex decided to swing around and approach the house by the back roads. _It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you_, he reminded himself. Half a block away from home, he noticed a black SUV with tinted windows parked down the street from the Pleasures' house. From where it was situated, the driver would have an unobstructed view of the driveway and front door, as well as the living room windows. And it was not conveniently parked for access to any of the houses along that stretch of the street.

Alex ditched his bike, and approached the car from behind, keeping various bushes and fences between him and the car. As he had feared, the car was occupied. The driver was watching the house.

He backed off a couple of houses and unslung his backpack. Digging past the iPhone that the Pleasures had given him, he pulled out the pre-paid cellphone he had bought on his own. Glancing back down the street at the parked car, Alex enabled the GPS and Caller ID on the phone. He then dialed 9-1-1.

Laying on the valley-speak, Alex talked to the dispatcher in a hushed voice. "Dude, there's like this creepy car parked on my street? And, like, there's this creepy guy in the creepy car? And, man, like, he's been there for a while? And, dude, I think he's got a gun! I'm freaking here, man!"

Alex gave the neighbor's address. "My name? I don't know, dude, I've already harshed my chill too much over this guy. I'm outta here!" And he hung up. _OK, maybe that was a little over the top._ Alex then pulled the battery and the SIM card from the phone and stuffed everything back into his backpack. He worked his way back towards the car, stopping behind a stockade fence.

It must have been a slow night, because only five minutes later two police cars arrived with their bubble lights flashing. One of the officers approached with his hand on his holstered firearm. Alex noted derisively that the officers had failed to unbuckle the holster – kind of defeating the purpose of approaching in such an aggressive posture.

"Is there a problem, officer?" asked the driver of the SUV.

"Sir, keep your hands on the wheel. Can I see some ID?"

The driver slowly reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a billfold. The officer flipped it open, and Alex caught the flash of something metallic. The policeman visibly relaxed.

"Oh, I see. Uh, is this official business?"

"Semi-official. Confidential, at least."

"Okay. Uh, I gotta, you know, check this out."

"Of course."

After a few minutes, the policeman returned to the car and gave the driver back his ID. "Sorry to have bothered you, sir. Have a nice evening."

"No problem. Good to see you're vigilant." The cruisers were soon gone.

The driver got out of the car. "Alex? Alex, I know you're out there. That little stunt doesn't buy you anything if you don't hang around to see the fallout."

"Who are you?" asked Alex from behind the fence. "What do you want?" Alex quietly moved a few yards back towards his bike.

"Franklin McDeere."

"I don't give a damn. I told you people to leave me alone."

"I have a message from Joe Byrne."

"I won't accept an assignment," Alex hissed.

"Assignment? What are you talk– never mind, I don't want to know. I'm just supposed to deliver a message."

"What, you couldn't just send an email? Or leave a voicemail?"

"Actually, part of this visit is that I'm to deliver you a secure cell phone."

"Oh. Give it over, then." The agent limped back to the car, and returned with a box which he handed over the fence.

"The instructions are in the box, but here's the nickel tour… There is a slot for a second SIM card, so you can still use your current provider. There is a separate security code to enable the secure line. Take the battery out completely on airplanes, and don't use it near sensitive medical equipment. Telephone company records will misreport which cell tower you are using, though typically it will be an adjacent cell. Be warned, this plays havoc with any GPS-enabled applications, but this makes it virtually impossible for the black hats to track your phone. Anyone using standard tools to try and track your phone will usually be off by a few miles. It's not foolproof, as your calls still needed to be routed to you. And the downside is more dropped calls, particularly when you're on the move."

"Thanks, I guess. Sounds like one step up from smoke signals."

"The rest of the message is that a threat assessment has been performed on your situation here."

"You've been briefed about me?" Alex was a little surprised.

"Yes. Well, to a certain extent. I've seen your redacted file. Of course, they could have saved ink by printing it on black paper, but it paints a picture - at least in regards to your current situation. Listen, we shouldn't be talking about this in the open. How 'bout we get in my car?"

"How about... not?" Alex said derisively. "You may have convinced Mr. Policeman, but I still don't know you from Adam."

He heard a car door open. "Frank? Is there a problem?" Alex peeked through a gap in the fence and his blood ran cold. He had last seen the woman in front of him dressed in scuba gear diving into the waters off Skeleton Key.

"Belinda?" he asked in a small voice.

The woman stopped short and craned her neck to try to see where the voice was coming from. "Belinda was my sister. My name is Helena."

Alex grabbed the top of the fence and vaulted it in one smooth motion. "Helena Troy?" He asked with a note of disbelief.

"Actually, that was my maiden name. I'm Helena Weals."

Alex looked at the car. "But I see he still won't let you drive," tilting his head toward McDeere.

Ignoring this response, Helena looked into Alex's eyes and asked "You knew my sister?"

"Briefly. For a couple of days, I was her 'son'." To her quizzical look, he replied, "Classified." His face tightened. "I'm sorry for your loss. She was a good agent, ... a good woman."

"Thank you. It's been a little difficult... with so many unanswered questions..." She considered Alex carefully, then drew herself up as if a piece of the puzzle had fallen into place in her mind. "But... thanks."

Alex turned back to McDeere. "You mentioned a threat assessment?"

"Uh, yeah. I don't have access to the raw intel, but the conclusion was that, uh, the bad guys-"

Alex interrupted. "Tell you what, I've changed my mind. Let's take this to your car. I can't afford to get the wrong takeaway 'cause we're dancing around with euphemisms." Alex held the door open for Helena, then hopped in the back seat. He left the door unlatched, just in case.

Frank continued. "Scorpia is in shambles. They've had a number of setbacks recently-" Alex snorted. Now it was McDeere's turn to look as if something on his mind had been confirmed. "They seem to be focused on generating quick cash: drug running, arms deals, small-time stuff. They're on the run. The thought is that they have bigger fish to fry. If you keep your head down, they should leave you alone."

McDeere turned to look more directly at Alex in the back seat. "I've been designated your local contact, if you need anything from us. If the situation changes, I'll contact you, through that phone there. In our line of business, things can change rapidly."

"I'm not in your 'line of business'!" Alex stated, a little more sharply than he'd intended.

"As you say. Well, this little excursion took longer than I'd planned. We'll be on our way. Good afternoon."

"Bye. And … uh, thanks for the phone." After, a beat, Alex added "Wait, there is one thing i could use your help with." Alex looked down for a moment, considering whether this was a good idea. "I just started school and I'd like to do school sports." The agents shared a confused look. "Look, I need to get a sports physical, and I need to find a doctor that won't ask too many difficult questions, and won't report my host family to Social Services... We've settled on the story that I was in a car accident, to explain my scars and burns, and how my housekeeper died. I'll try to imply that my uncle died in the same accident, but some of my host family's friends know he died last year - so I won't risk being called on that. But a doctor should be able to tell that scars are not all from the same time period, and he'd be able to recognize a bullet wound."

"Scars? Bullet wound?" Frank frowned.

Alex clenched his jaw and shook his head. "OK, that file on my they gave you? Throw it away, it's bloody useless. Now I don't know what I'm allowed to tell you... Right, well, you know about Scorpia - so just know that they would prefer me dead, and it's been pretty high on their to-do list. They've tried putting a check mark besides it several times already. I don't know how much faith I can put in your assurances that Scorpia's not after my head."

McDeere raised his hands in an I'm-just-saying gesture and said reassuringly "People above my pay grade have looked at all the intel, and say there is less than 5% chance that Scorpia still considers you an active priority."

Alex's eyes narrowed. "One in 20, hunh? That means I've got, what?, three weeks before someone takes a shot at me?"

"That's not-"

"I know, I know," interrupted the teen. "I'm not that far behind in maths. Still, 5% is not that comforting when you're wondering whether someone is pointing a sniper rifle at your head."

"Understood. I'll ask around about a doctor, but it might take some time. I don't think the agency has much need for special arrangements with pediatricians."

Alex growled, "I can skip the lollies and stickers. It doesn't need to be a pediatrician. In fact, I'd like to minimize the chance I run into any of my new classmates. If that's all?"

"Yes, that's all. I'll get back to you on the phone there."

"Thanks, and thanks for the phone." Alex turned to Helena. "Bollocks. Look, they've never really explained to me how the Official Secrets Act works. Doubt they'd be thrilled with me trying to feel out the boundaries, but... maybe if you have some guesses about what happened with Belinda, I could... confirm them? Or maybe that's a bad idea..."

Helena gave Alex a wry smile. "Probably a bad idea. But I appreciate the sentiment. Take care of yourself."

Alex jumped out of the car and darted towards his abandoned bicycle. Helena mused. "Good kid. A little bit of attitude, though."

Frank started the car. "He's got a bullet hole, with a promise of more where that came from. He's entitled to bit of attitude."

* * *

Alex brought the mail in from the mailbox. Flipping through the envelopes, he noticed a letter from the school addressed to "The parents of Sabina Pleasure". Sure enough, right behind it was a letter addressed to "The parents of Alex Pleasure". Alex expelled a small sigh at the reminder that – on top of all that he had lost in the past year – he had had to sacrifice part of his own identity to be free of the life that MI6 had forced upon him.

When Mrs. Jones had slipped the bit from his mouth, at least she had seen fit to arrange for a passport and visa in the name of Alex Pleasure. There was no paperwork that tied Alex Pleasure to Alex Rider. Unfortunately, that also meant there was no paperwork that formally transferred his guardianship from MI6 to the Pleasures.

Cray and Gregorovich had known of the connection between Alex and the Pleasures, but apparently the assassin hadn't seen the need to report this back to the Scorpia board. Maybe this was due to Yassen's professed loyalty to Alex's father, but it certainly couldn't have helped that the association with Edward Pleasure came to light due to a failed assassination attempt. Not to mention that the boy had successfully infiltrated the assassin's own yacht! Scorpia didn't tend to forgive or forget any form of failure.

During Alex's time on Malagosto, Scorpia's disdain for Cray was tangible. It was clear that if Alex had not "sent him off his trolley" they would have terminated their relationship with the madman in the same way they had done with Herod Sayle. Their operatives were expendable, for sure, but it was not up to the client to make that call. Once Cray's plan had collapsed, the criminal network wasn't much interested in the whys and wherefores. Alex certainly wasn't going to explain that it took a hostage to get him onto Air Force One with Gregorovich. After all, he had been relying on the fact that Yassen had been the one to recommend Alex head to Venice.

Desmond McCain hadn't had any connection to Scorpia; with him dead, MI6 was relatively certain that there was no obvious paper trail connecting Alex to the Pleasures. MI6's assurances comforted Alex not in the slightest. But he had nowhere else to turn.

After a long, hot shower, Alex felt a little more human. He came downstairs and found that the house was still quiet. As a major investigative reporter, Edward worked ungodly hours. Sabina was probably at the mall with her girlfriends. He wasn't sure where Liz was.

The silence made Alex a bit uncomfortable. Jack had had a fairly active social life, but somehow she always seemed to be bouncing around the house when Alex made his way home. She would be watching her programs, or leafing through her newest recipe book as though she were actually going to attempt one of them.

The thought of Jack made Alex a bit antsy. Spotting the grocery list on the refrigerator, he decided to he needed to get out of the house again. Grabbing the list and some bills from Liz' "pin money" (Jack had just referred to it as "petty cash"), he headed back to the garage to get his bicycle.

Alex did not usually help with the shopping, so he was unfamiliar with the layout of the store. He'd been in the store before, but he'd been trailing along behind Mrs. Pleasure and Sabina. He settled on the simple expedient of going down every aisle and scanning the shelves. He saw one box that brought him up short. It was labeled "Hamburger Helper". Memories of Jack came flooding towards him. _"I don't know why they call this stuff Hamburger Helper, it tastes just fine by itself."_ She always said it like she was quoting something, but Alex had never gotten the reference. It was just another one of Jack's famous 10-minute recipes.

Alex's breathing came in short pants, and he felt a cold shiver race down his spine. He wanted to thrust this feeling away, but somehow it made him feel closer to Jack to hold onto it for a moment. _You will not cry!_ he berated himself mentally, channeling his inner Sergeant. To be truthful, he didn't really feel like crying. The crashing wave of grief and loneliness made him feel more empty than sad. But it seemed like such an intense visceral feeling should have some sort of outward manifestation, and not just this internal clenching.

"Bugger this," he said quietly to himself. Scanning the grocery list, he efficiently got the last few items and made his way to the checkout line.

* * *

Sabina looked up from her diet soda as her friend Anne returned to the table. Sabina scanned the food court to see if she could spot any suspicious behavior. _Not that I'd recognize anything suspicious. I'm just picking up bad habits from Alex._ But she paid attention to his advice; she always kept her cell phone on her, and she tried to keep to populated areas. _But it's tiring always being so, so… _aware_ … all the time. I don't know how he does it._

"Sabina, how's Alex settling in?" asked Emily.

"Wha—Why do you ask?" asked Sabina, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic.

"Well, you've that look, you know? And when you get that look, the conversation usually turns to Alex."

"Look? What look? I don't have a look."

"No, Anne's right," Emily chimed in. "I'd call it 'shifty' – but on you it's cute."

If it had been any of the younger girls on the tennis team, Sabina would have figured they were asking in order to get the inside scoop on Alex. His British accent, his floppy blond hair, and his grief-torn chocolate brown eyes had made him into something of romantic/tragic figure. But she knew that Anne and Emily were genuinely concerned, because they knew how hard Sabina had been working to cheer Alex up, and help him fit in.

Sure, when he had been half a world away, they could imagine the romantic angle. But now that he had been here for a few weeks as a flesh-and-blood boy – a _younger_ boy – they had a little trouble seeing him as more than a sweet little brother. Sabina and Alex only had lunch together on Day 2 and Day 5 of their 6-day rotating schedule, and while they shared the same gym period, activities were usually separated by grade. Alex spent a lot of his free time in the early morning or evening running or biking. He said the strenuous exercise helped him sleep... and keep his mind away from... This left the weekends for the couple to have some alone time, so Emily and the others hadn't really gotten to know Alex yet.

"Shifty? Hmph!" said Sabina, crossing her arms in an exaggerated pout. She immediately relaxed into a natural posture and admitted "No, you caught me. I was worrying about him again. I'm trying to convince him to join the soccer team. He'll be more like a normal teenager than when he finally gets out on the pitch."

"Normal? That's a strange way of putting it—" Emily scrunched up her forehead.

"Um, I mean—getting back to normal, after his loss. Anyway! Enough about Alex!" declared Sabina, gathering up her trash. "I don't want my face getting stuck in 'shifty' mode, even if it is cute. Summer's coming fast, and I need some new board shorts! Let's roll."

* * *

**A/N: This does not represent my normal writing speed. Most of this was written before I got up the nerve to publish the first chapter.**

**I worked three _nom de puns _(a term I just coined) into this chapter. Two of them I think are pretty obvious. The third may be too old of a cultural reference for most of this fandom.**


	4. Product Launch

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Product Launch**

Half a world away in London, a man walked down a drab corridor carrying a thick folder. The doors along the hallway lacked any numbers or nameplates, but he knew exactly where he was going. He knocked on the last door on the left.

"Come in."

The man was generally non-descript. Mousy brown hair, middling height, slight build, wearing an off-the-rack gray suit. The only thing that would make him stand out in a crowd were the burns on his right hand and up his forearm. The burns were not so horrific as to make children cry and women faint—but the physical therapy had been grueling to keep the healing skin supple enough not to restrict the motion of his wrist, and to regain lost muscle mass. At the time of the fire, he had been a top operative. He was a role model to the top recruits, and a scourge to the laggards. Hand-to-hand combat, small arms fire, tactics, strategy... he set the bar for operatives throughout the organization. He had been determined to put his injuries behind him. He had relentlessly dedicated himself to the therapy, night and day.

As a consequence, he had retained a significant range of motion in the joint, but at the cost of a constant obsessive/compulsive turning and twisting motion in his wrist. Despite being an excellent field operative, he just drew too much attention to himself. So he was restricted to logistics and analysis. It wouldn't do to attract attention with some interesting quirk – unless it was something you could turn off to disappear into a crowd. In a less prosaic organization, he would probably have picked up a codename like Snakehand or Cobra Fist. Here, he was just known by his name, Cecil.

"Sir, I have the write-up you requested on the Rider boy."

"Thank you, Cecil. Do we have a final plan for the launch?"

"Yes, sir. As you suggested, the first phase revolves around the school. There are so many civilians involved it is amazing those incompetents at Six were able to keep things hushed up. We will have to ease into this carefully. As discussed, we still don't know where they have stashed him. We have looked into orphanages, group homes, even initiated surveillance of several of the most likely SAS training grounds. Nothing."

"If we don't handle this carefully, they may bury him so deeply that they'll never be forced to acknowledge his existence. We have engineered a series of leaks that will appear to have arisen organically from the civilians. With us fanning the most sensational aspects of the incident, the press should have a feeding frenzy." Cecil caught himself rotating his wrist again, and froze. At least the sense of humiliation didn't reach his face.

The chief had learned to ignore the distraction. "Excellent. It still astounds me that MI6 just let the boy walk out of their clutches. He is the perfect instrument to strike a mortal blow at Scorpia, and they let him go? It beggars the imagination. Well, we can fix their mistake. We're ready to introduce the world to its latest and youngest savior. Proceed."

* * *

Monday morning rolled around far too quickly for Alex's liking. He would have liked to burrow in under the covers for another hour or two, but he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He knew better than to let Sabina get into the bathroom ahead of him if he wanted to have time to ride his bike to school. He liked the flexibility having his bike available after school.

After his morning ritual in the bathroom (which mostly consisted of convincing himself that he was awake), he made his way to the kitchen. Liz was just clearing the breakfast table; Edward had already left for the day.

"Morning, dear. What would you like to have for breakfast?" Mrs. Pleasure asked.

"Just toast, ma'am, thanks."

"Tut, tut. That's not enough for a growing boy. I'll make you some eggs and sausages."

"Don't trouble yourself. I'll grab a couple of these bananas, if you don't mind."

Stuffing the bananas in the pocket of his hoodie, he made himself some toast. "Tell Sabina I'll see her at lunch." Sabina always rode the bus with Emily. He grabbed his backpack and headed to school.

* * *

Alex got to school about ten minutes early, as he normally did. He scanned the surrounding area as he locked up his bike – again, part of his typical protocol. There were enough people filtering into the area that he didn't stand out as a target, but few enough that he could easily spot anyone who weren't moving with the flow. Almost a shame they didn't wear school uniforms here – harder to track students making their way across the schoolyard. The turn-about and sidewalk in front of the school were kept clear of vehicles for the school buses and parent drop-offs, so anyone trying to stake out the school would have to park a fair distance from the entrance. _God! I wish I could shake this constant need to be looking over my shoulder! _Alex thought, _Will I ever really be free?_

Anyone observing Alex would only see an observant, serious boy. Sure, he was a bit wary, but a lot of the freshmen and sophomores walked softly around the upperclassmen. There was very little overt bullying at this school, but there was a definite social pecking order. And underclassmen were very clearly at the bottom. A few upperclassmen had gotten their noses out of joint that Alex had begun hanging out with Sabina and her friends. It was clear that a handful of juniors and seniors had had their eye on Sab. When they had found out he was her "brother" some of them had tried to get chummy. Alex was faintly amused at their lack of subtlety, but had little patience for their maneuvering while dealing with putting his life back together. Fortunately, Sabina had a light touch and was able to wave off her admirers without anyone getting too bent out of shape.

After his experience last year at Brookland, Alex had kept his ears open for any budding rumors about himself. He had even asked Sabina to let him know if she picked up anything. She had acted amused that he would think himself the center of attention, but she knew enough about the situation in Chelsea to take his request seriously. Some people would probably be considerate enough to pass along any scuttlebutt. And others would be petty enough.

But, truthfully, Alex hadn't really made much of an impression. Being the "new kid" didn't really set him apart much, even with a British accent. The old saw about no one who lives in California is actually from California had more than a grain of truth. He knew of kids from at least seven different countries, and there were probably more that he didn't know of.

Alex had joined the soccer team - McDeere had come through with a doctor referral - so he had made a bit of a splash in that small pool. But this school was basketball-mad. He was pretty sure he could have made the varsity soccer team— perhaps even as a starter—if had been a known quantity. But the coach was quite conservative and believed you earned your way onto the field through years on the bench. There were no freshman and only two sophomores on the varsity team, and they didn't get very many minutes. Alex was satisfied for now to be playing on the junior varsity, and getting to know some of the underclassmen. "Getting to know them" might be overstating the situation a little bit, as that would entail actually talking to them. But at least he was becoming a familiar face.

The game in the States was a bit different than back home. A little more ragged, a little rougher – not quite the "Beautiful Game" that he loved. Sure, English fans were hooligans (and proud of it), but on the field the focus was on precise passing and lightning quick moves. Here, with the hard slide tackles—well, with his acting skills, Alex knew he could probably get himself a penalty kick with every touch, but that's not the way he wanted to play the game.

Even Alex's scars hadn't sparked any significant rumors. He had been primed to mention the car accident that he had been in, the one that killed his guardian, the one that sent a piece of rebar from the flatbed into his chest, before the car caught fire. But the only time there had been a reaction in the communal shower, a muttered "car accident" had been enough to stifle any questions. This was the US after all, where tens of thousands of people die in car accidents every year. Hell, with all the gun violence in the States, if any of these suburban kids could recognize the scar on his chest as a bullet wound, a muttered "gun accident" would probably get the same reaction. Or maybe it was just because the scars were ancient history, from half a world away. Perhaps if he came to school with a fresh set of scars and bruises, the same cycle of rumors would start all over. He didn't plan on testing the theory.

Still, he had to agree with _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_: a towel was a massively useful item. He could use a towel and a face cloth as gracefully as a toreador used his cape (and he could now think of that image without shuddering) to cover and distract. He could go from his gym locker, to the shower, and back without ever exposing his bullet wound – and make all his actions look totally natural.

And the teachers and administration found no fault with Alex. He was respectful and attentive, though very quiet and intense. As a parting gift, MI6 had scrubbed his Brookland transcript of his attendance problems. In fact, Mr. Bray would have some trouble recognizing the transcript that actually made its way to his new school. Sure, there were some areas where Alex need remedial help – but who can keep track of the differences in curriculum among the various states, much less overseas. And he was ready to take the Advanced Placement practice tests in French, German, and Spanish – as a sophomore!

What Alex didn't have, were friends. Sabina's friends tried to include Alex in their conversations at the lunch table, when their schedules overlapped. But they knew he had experienced a recent traumatic loss, and when faced with his thousand-yard stare they had no idea how to talk to him. It's not like anyone thought being an orphan was contagious, but they just didn't know how to talk about his loss, and they didn't know how to avoid it.

There was one exception; Emily's little brother, Spike, had become a friend of sorts. Alex had quickly figured out that Spike had secretly been pining for Sabina. Unlike the upperclassmen, Spike had never really expected to get anywhere with the older girl, so he didn't resent Alex's presence. Spike kind of reminded Alex of Tom in that regard. He would roll with the punches and take what life throws at him without a lot of grumbling. In most other ways, Spike did not have a lot in common with Alex's best mate. Where Tom was short, Spike was tall and lanky. Where Tom was a star on the football pitch, Spike had just barely made the junior varsity soccer team, and almost certainly wouldn't make the jump to varsity next year. And Spike was an A/B student, while Tom was… well, Tom.

With the other classmates at his own grade-level, well, Alex just blended into the background. He walked so quietly, and kept himself so still when he stopped, it was easy to forget he was there. They probably would have been surprised if they had seen him at his dojo, unleashing his grief and frustration on the training dummy. The flurry of strikes, the constant motion, was a marked contrast to his in-school demeanor. The dojo was in a different part of the city– easy to get to by bus, but so far he had not run into anyone from his high school.

He had occasionally been asked to spar, but he normally turned down these requests. He was just too afraid of losing control. It never reached his face, but sometimes rage filled his heart. Rage against Scorpia, rage against MI6, rage against the universe. The few times that he had agreed to spar, he had focused on blocking and dodging. The opponents each felt that he was holding back, and generally felt like they had been an unwanted intrusion on Alex's solitary activity.

* * *

"Have you seen this?" Sabina asked, tossing the newspaper on to the breakfast table.

Alex slapped his hand down to save his juice glass from being knocked over.

"I scanned the headlines. Why?" Alex lifted his eyebrow inquisitively.

"No, I mean that article I have it opened to, there. 'Hostage Drama in French Alps.' It mentions Point Blanc Academy."

"What, again? Is the place cursed?" Alex pulled the newspaper towards him.

"No, idiot – it's talking about events from last year." Alex began skimming the article, muttering to himself.

"'_Düsseldorf – More details continue to emerge surrounding the hostage crisis at the exclusive Point Blanc Academy in the French Alps'… _bloody hell… '_scions of sixteen of the richest and most influential families'…_ bloody hell… '_truancy and behavioral issues… expelled from some of the most prestigious educational institutions… taken hostage… held prisoner… one hostage escaped… harrowing midnight run down the mountain on an ironing board… hurtling train'…_bloody, bloody hell…'_daring dawn raid… gunfire… helicopter crash'…_BLOODY HELL! … '_nude photographs of the students…'"_

"This article makes it sound like some sort of bizarre cult or child pornography ring!" Alex practically shouted.

"Calm down, calm down. They don't mention you by name—or cover name, or whatever—and they don't mention MI6 at all."

Alex put his head in his hands. "It's only a matter of time. I told the other students I was working for MI6."

"You did what? Whatever for?" Sabina was shocked.

"I needed to get them to move, to believe me when I gave them instructions."

Sabina lifted an eyebrow. "And nothing screams credibility like announcing you are a secret agent." She smirked at the miserable boy.

"This is not funny!" Alex wailed. Then he added quietly, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And you never told me about your nude modeling career."

Alex sighed. "Remember I told you they were going to replace all the students. There was one boy, his name was... was Julius Grief. He was meant to be my exact doppelgänger. I presume they were searching for scars, moles, birthmarks, that sort of thing… Or in my case, dealing with 'male enhancement'. They've got supplements for that, you know." Sabina threw her napkin at him. "Pity I didn't get a few more missions under my belt before visiting them. Could have kept them busy for a few months trying to match my scars." Alex became serious again. "Julius got away when they raided the school. He... he tracked me to Chelsea and tried to kill me. There was a fire. I thought I'd killed him."

"Julius didn't die. Those bastards at MI6 never bothered to tell me. He... oh, god... he was the one who killed Jack."

The two sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Sabina wanted to comfort Alex, but somehow sensed that Alex didn't want comfort, but rather wanted to be unleashed.

Sabina decided to break the silence, and picked up the newspaper. "One thing I don't understand. If the school was in France, why is the dateline on this story in Düsseldorf?"

"Hmm. James Sprintz, it must be – he's from there. When I was posing as a student, he was the only other kid there who hadn't been replaced by a clone. It was us against them. We got reasonably close in a short amount of time. But I don't understand what he could possibly gain from dragging the whole traumatic experience out in front the press…"

"At least he kept your name out of it," she said, trying to look on the bright side.

"I don't think I ever told him my real name. No, wait – I did. But even if I did, under the circumstances, I doubt he would have remembered. If the hounds of the press start looking into 'Alex Friend', they're just going to hit a dry hole. MI6 didn't bother substantiating a backstory. It was apparently my bona fides were established by the fact that Platform 9¾ for the Point Blanc Express was located on Sir David's estate." Sabina's mouth twitched with a quick smile.

Alex sighed again. "I dearly hope that this doesn't cause Sir David any distress. He is the only billionaire I've ever met who hasn't tried to kill me…. But I suppose we're even, since I haven't been forced to kill him either. Thankfully, Sir David can simply stonewall any inquiries. There is no paper trail linking me to him."

"So maybe this will blow over?"

"Maybe. But somehow I doubt it. This story has everything the press loves: money, power, conspiracy, violence and – with those photographs – nudity. They'll be looking for a Page Three spread. The Point Blanc student body were being groomed to take over their family businesses. That's why Grief accepted them as students in the first place. Even at fourteen or fifteen, these boys represent some of the most eligible bachelors in Europe, in the world, for that matter. Now that they know that those photos exist, Fleet Street will stop at nothing to get their hands on them."

"I just hope MI6 can keep my name and face—" Alex blushed. "—and whatever, out of the press."

"God, I'm counting on MI6 to look after my best interests. I'm doomed."

* * *

_Rap! Rap!_

Alex was awake instantly as the bedroom door flew open after two brief knocks. Seeing Sabina storming in, he quickly arranged his covers to make sure he was decent.

"Wha—"

"Who is Fiona Friend?"

"Huh? What?" Alex was clearly fluent in incoherent-half-awake-teenagerese.

"No! You know what? I don't care!" And threw the newspaper in her hand in Alex's face. He adeptly let it bounce off his forehead.

Sabina marched out the door. Then returned. Then left again.

Returning a second time, Sabina closed the door and took a deep cleansing breath. "I'll try again. Who. Is. Fiona. Friend?"

Alex swung his legs off the edge of the bed, keeping his covers bunched in his lap.

"Fiona is Sir David's daughter. For a very brief period, she made my life miserable."

With a sinking feeling, Alex tried to turn the paper until he could see what had so upset Sabina. The headline "Friend or Fiend?" was his first clue. Alex scanned the article, skipping over the recap of the crisis that had become almost formulaic over the last couple of days. He did notice that the description of the ironing board run was now sprinkled with words like "purportedly" and "allegedly". He felt the faint tendrils of a blossoming headache as he reached the heart of the story:

_The shadowy "hero" at the center of this scandal has now been identified as Alex Friend, foster son of Sir David Friend. Sir David has denied any personal connection to the dramatic events at Point Blanc Academy. But this writer was able to get an exclusive interview with Fiona Friend, Sir David's natural-born daughter._

"_He is no brother of mine," stated the clearly distraught Miss Friend. "That bastard attacked me! He drugged me!" This writer was able to ascertain that this attack directly preceded Alex Friend being sent away to Point Blanc. Sir David was clearly made aware of the attack, and he even went so far as to prevent his daughter from pressing charges, or even seeking medical attention._

The article proceeded in this vein, weaving a web of innuendo and insinuation to imply that Alex had fled the country one step ahead of a rape charge.

On another day, Alex might have been seething in rage. At Fiona for mucking up his life, at Sabina for doubting him, at MI6 for letting him down—again. But Fiona cut such a pathetic figure in the story. And the look on Sabina's face was such a strange combination of anger, confusion and… hope?... that Alex was forced to see how ludicrous this situation was becoming.

"It was a tranq dart."

"Excuse me?"

"The reporter makes it sound like I slipped her a roofie. It was a tranquilizer dart. She was about to out me in front of Miss No-Neck. You know, the headmistress of Point Blanc. I'm pretty sure I told you the story."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Alex chuckled, "Fiona was right pissed that I turned down the chance for a kiss. After she almost got me killed by a train. Apparently she finds near-death experiences romantic. Come to think of it, trains and I didn't get along during that entire mission."

Alex grew serious again. "This is not good. In fact, this is bad. Sir David is not going to be able brush aside allegations that he participated in the cover up of a crime." Alex handed the paper back to Sabina. "I hate my life." He lay back down on the bed and turned to the wall. "And I'm pretty sure life returns the sentiment," he muttered.

* * *

Sir David was not happy. He was not the type to thunder at the people around him when he was annoyed, but today he was willing to make an exception.

"You WILL fix this, or I'll have your job!"

Mrs. Jones merely rolled the peppermint over in her mouth and coolly stared down the supermarket tycoon.

"And just _how_, sir, do you propose we 'fix' this?"

"I don't care how! My company's stock price has fallen seventeen percent since this debacle hit the newspapers. The stockholders will be calling for my head!" Sir David began pacing the length of the office.

Only her eyes moved as Mrs. Jones watched the man fume. "The price will rebound when the news becomes stale. Consider it a buying opportunity."

"I'm not interested in your trading advice! I've been all but asked to step down from the Museum's board of directors! The Olympic committee chairman has suggested I scale back my involvement! This is a disaster and it's your fault!" The man took a deep breath and made a visible decision to proceed calmly.

"Listen, this is simple. The boy's a hero. Just produce him, give him the key to the City. I can set him up with a scholarship, finest schools in England. They can throw a parade. Just make this go away!" Sir David stormed out of Mrs. Jones' office – though he ruined the effect by closing the office door behind him gently. Proper breeding, and all that…

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for the kind reviews. It is kind of startling how it picks up my day.**

**Alium asked about _nom de __puns_. This is supposed to be a riff on "_nom de plumes_" or pen names. So, "pun names" - like Sabina Pleasure ("It's Been a Pleasure"), Diana Meacher ("[I'm] Dying to Meet You") or Fiona Friend ("Phone a Friend", a gameshow tag phrase)._  
_**

**Youdon'tknowme123 asked how fast I write. This story actually represents several months of writing off and on (more off than on). I've got a chapter or two in somewhat decent shape, but after that it quickly descends into bits of dialog and such that I may not be able to use if the story doesn't behave itself. I also think I'm going to need two daring escapes, but I only have one worked out.**

**When I first started writing, I thought Alex would be a freshman entering mid-year. Then I re-read _Scorpia Rising_ and realized that this was a summer session, and he left before it was over. And for some reason, I came away with the idea that Edward Pleasure had moved to San Francisco to be a newspaper editor. I only mention this to ask readers to be aware of continuity errors, especially around timelines. Thanks!_  
_**


	5. Ships in the Night

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Ships in the Night**

Every time the story about Point Blanc seemed to have run its course, some new tidbit would be leaked. The past few days had seen a series of "Where Are They Now?" pieces describing how the students had fared re-integrating into their families and society at large. Some of the boys had been held in isolation for months at the academy. On top of that, they had to deal with the fact that their families had accepted their replacements with open arms, and begun grooming them for the positions of leadership that they themselves had rejected. Some of the boys had reconciled with their families; others had flamed out spectacularly. Each of the stories eventually circled back to the mysterious "Alex Friend". Where had he come from? Where was he now? Sir David's people had been remarkably silent on the subject. In fact, all of the families had been noticeably reluctant to participate in interviews. Whether this was the work of MI6, or the natural tendency of rich people to pull up the drawbridge when under siege, Alex didn't know.

The media made a big deal that two of the boys had missed the passing of their fathers, but the press had yet to make the connection between the deaths of Michael Roscoe and General Ivanov and the events at the school. Alex was sure that would be good for another few spins of the news cycle when the dots were connected. And they hadn't even gotten to the fact that the impostors were clones! The press would have a field day with that!

The media bombardment had kept the events a topic of conversation around Alex's school, even amongst a student body that was normally oblivious to current events. Perhaps the fact that the victims were their own age helped them to empathize. Popular opinion seemed about evenly split between the theory that "Alex Friend" was an adult undercover agent posing as a teenager, or that he was, in fact, guilty of sexual assault on Fiona Friend and had been disowned by Sir David. Alex found it quite disheartening that he was actually rooting for people to settle on thinking of him as a sex offender. The undercover agent story was a little too close to home.

The drip, drip, drip of the news leaks was like Chinese water torture to Alex. Every time a fellow student would check their text messages or surf the web between classes, Alex would tense up. Eventually, Spike noticed. "You're such a Luddite."

"Huh? What are you on about?"

"A Luddite. A technophobe."

"I know what a Luddite is," replied Alex a bit testily. "Why would you say something like that?"

"Every time someone pulls out an electronic device, your mood turns sour."

Alex was taken aback at being caught out like that. "Well, we're in school to learn..."

"Ha! What's your excuse for yesterday at the pizza place?", the other boy countered.

Alex pursed his lips, nonplussed. "People should pay attention to the people they're with- not keep their noses glued to the nearest screen."

"Man! You've got an old soul..."

Alex decided to change the subject. "How's that French essay coming? You haven't been complaining about it today."

"That's because I've given up! It's due next week, and I haven't even picked a topic..." The boys continued on to class.

* * *

"Can I go to the concert, Mother? Please?"

Elizabeth Pleasure looked unconvinced. "I don't know, dear. I'm not comfortable with you going by yourself."

Sabina could sense that her mother was wavering. She was ahead of schedule; she had only been at this wheedling for a day and a half. "I won't be myself. A bunch of kids from school will be there. Plus, Alex will be there. He can protect me."

"Alex is younger than you."

"Alex is a black belt."

"Alex is right here," Alex said as he came into the kitchen. "What are we talking about?"

"The concert. Mother was saying that I could go as long as you were there."

Liz huffed. "I said no such thing."

Alex imitated Liz's huff, which got a little smile from her. "And I never said I was going."

Sabina put on her best let's-be-reasonable voice. "Alex, you have to get out of the house. You've been moping around the house for days."

"I haven't been moping."

"You've been moping, dear," Liz said, shaking her head and smiling. "OK, OK, you can go to the concert. Just be home by eleven, and text me if there are any change in plans."

* * *

Alex decided that free, outdoor evening concerts were not his cup of tea. People bumping against him in the dim lighting, the loud music masking the noises behind him, no easy escape path – all his instincts were telling him _Get out of here!_

It didn't help that fifteen minutes ago, he had seen a red-headed woman dancing frenetically out of the corner of this eye. He had nearly given himself whiplash trying to see her clearly. Alex was angry at himself for letting his emotions get away from him like that, but he couldn't stop himself from searching out the woman every few seconds. Despite the fact that she looked nothing like Jack, beyond the color of her hair and the completely un-self-conscious dance style.

As one song ended, Sabina turned to Alex. Her smile drained from her face as she realized that Alex was not enjoying himself. "Hey," she shouted over the opening chords of the next song, "do you want to get out of here?"

Alex hesitated a moment. "Uh, no… no, this is great." He gave her an enthusiastic smile. Sabina almost bought it, but only almost. Alex continued, "Why? Do you… do you want to go?"

Sabina smiled at him. "Yeah. Yeah, let's bounce."

Fifteen minutes later, the couple were strolling along the waterfront. Sabina had her arms wrapped around Alex's bicep, with her check pressed against his shoulder. "Did you enjoy the concert, at least a little bit?"

"I'm enjoying this more," Alex said softly.

"Oh, sweet talk will get you nowhere."

"Nowhere?"

"Well, hardly anywhere." She straightened up for a moment and gave him a quick peck on the check. She then snuggled against him again.

"Hey, we should head over to Ghiradelli Square." Alex said. "I feel like getting a hot chocolate. I think that Ghiradelli hot chocolate's going to be my 'San Francisco drink'."

Sabina looked slightly puzzled. "San Francisco drink?"

"Sure. Whenever we traveled, Ian would introduce me to the local cuisine. We would pick out a drink that was popular with the locals. For instance, along the Mediterranean, it was _sirop de grenadine_. He'd say 'When in Rome—'." Alex stopped walking, as he was blinded by a sudden flash of insight. "Bloody hell!"

"Al? What's wrong?"

"I'm so dense. I just figured it out. Everywhere we'd go, he'd make sure we looked like locals, or at least ex-pats. Protective coloring. Drink what the natives are drinking, eat what they're eating. Even explains why he put up with me rotting my teeth with my Coke habit—the universal beverage that doesn't look out of place from Minsk to Minneapolis. In everything else, he was a health nut. And I just now got it. It's not 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do', it's 'When in Rome—prepare to spy on the Italians.' I'm such an idiot."

They continued walking along the waterfront. Sabina was a little unsettled, wondering whether the memory of his uncle's subterfuges was going to darken Alex's mood further. After a minute, Alex made a conscious effort to stop second-guessing Ian's motives. At least he got the chance to experience the world before he realized how dark and ugly it could be.

Alex looked out across the naval yard ahead of them. It was not as romantic as a rustic fishing village, but the reflection of the navigation lights on the water was still enthralling. Here and there, the harsh work lights around the boats in dry dock would spoil the effect. But as they walked along, the lights would be blocked out by the silhouettes of other vessels. They passed a shore patrol walking the other way, and saw another pass in a little electric car. The relative quiet compared to the booming concert that they had left behind made them feel like the only people in the world.

Well, not the only people. Four sailors were walking towards them. As they got closer, the quiet was chased away by their shouts and laughter. It was clear that they had been drinking.

Alex momentarily considered heading back towards the concert, but it occurred to him that that was this new group's likely destination. He didn't fancy having that lot trailing along behind them the whole way back. He settled for moving Sabina over to his other arm to put himself between her and the rowdy sailors.

"HEY! HOW're ya doin'?" One of the sailors, slightly ahead of the group, had decided to greet the young couple, leaning in very close to Alex's face. Alex recoiled slightly, looking for any sign that the sailor's drunken gregariousness was an act. Noticing his unfocused, bloodshot eyes, he relaxed slightly and gave the answer that popped into his head. "Fine, until I smelled your breath." Not the smartest answer, but in his defense, he still had traces of the headache that had started to come on at the concert.

"Oh, a funny guy. Hey, guys, this guy's a comedian."

As the sailor turned to call his friends, Alex eased Sabina past him to continue their walk. At the point, however, the other sailors caught up. It was clear that all of them were three sheets to the wind. One of the new arrivals squinted at Alex and suddenly exclaimed "Space boy!"

This was so unexpected, that Alex stopped in his tracks. "Beg your pardon?" he said, glancing at Sabina. She clearly didn't know what to make of this as well. Alex was mentally fitting this new sailor for a tinfoil hat.

"See! See! See! It's the kid from space! I told you he had a limey accent!" said Tinfoil. Alex's heart sank. He realized these sailors must be from the USS Kitty Hawk, the vessel that had recovered him after the return journey from the Ark Angel space station. Once again, the universe laughs at Alex Rider. _At least I wish I could learn to appreciate the joke. _This could only happen to him. Actually, as the only kid to ever visit space, this could only happen to him.

"Sure, sure, Jablonski. Enough about your space boy. Let's catch the end of the concert." The other two sailors weren't nearly as drunk as the first pair.

"No, it's him! The kid… kid from the space ship!" Tinfoil insisted. Alex felt bad for tagging him with the Tinfoil nickname—but once you get assigned a nickname, you're stuck with it. Them's the rules.

"Hey, babe, wanna party? Ditch the punk, and come with us." While Alex had been momentarily stunned by the sudden connection to his other life, the first sailor had decided to romance Sabina. Romeo had lurched around Alex, and was crowding Sabina's personal space. His charm would have been more likely to convince if he hadn't been spending most of his concentration on remaining upright, and the balance of his attention focused on Sabina's chest.

"Petey, she's jailbait. Let's go!" But Romeo wasn't listening to his friend; he reached out and tried to grab Sabina's arm. Alex had had enough. He grabbed Romeo's wrist, twisted slightly, and ground his thumb against the pressure point on the side of the wrist. Romeo squealed like a stuck pig, sank to his knees and began cursing like… well, like a sailor.

Tinfoil took a step back, tripped, landed on his ass… and promptly passed out.

The sailors left standing were clearly confused at the sudden deterioration of the situation. Confusion quickly turned to anger. "You little punk bastard! I'm going to pop your head like a pimple!" This sailor had arms like a gorilla. He took a wild swing that missed Alex by a mile. Still, Alex figured he needed to end this quickly. He stepped under the next swing, and poked a stiffened hand into the man's solar plexus. As the sailor doubled over, Alex finished stepping through and elbowed the man in the neck. He went down hard. Though he wasn't knocked out, he was still struggling for breath, and wasn't getting up any time soon.

Alex turned to the final sailor. "Look, we don't want any trouble."

"Too late," the man snarled. He wasn't going to underestimate the teenager—much—and settled into a stance that promised more training than the others had exhibited. The man attempted a front kick, and Alex was relieved. Either the man was too drunk to execute properly, or he hadn't learned much more than the opening stance. Alex stepped to the side, and delivered a roundhouse kick to end the fight. This time, he was pretty sure the man was out.

Romeo was still on his knees, cradling his wrist. Alex grabbed Sabina's hand and began pulling her back towards the concert. A shrill whistle blast caught his attention and he saw a shore patrol running towards them. They turned back the way they had come, and saw another patrol approaching from the other direction. Alex immediately realized they wouldn't be able to outrun the patrols, and it would be harder to talk their way out if they were caught running away.

Alex puts his hands on Sab's shoulders. "Let me do the talking, _Sis_. You're too distraught, OK? Everything happened so fast."

* * *

The phone on the admiral's night stand rang. The admiral put down the report he was reading on the bed beside him and answered it.

"Sir, this is Lt. Springer at the San Francisco Naval Base. There's been an incident on shore. The duty log says that there is a declared Code Yellow, and that you should be informed of any unusual activity. The report is sketchy at this point, but it seems that a group of sailors on shore leave were attacked by some teenagers. Allegedly. The teens are claiming the four sailors attacked them first. There was alcohol involved. Possible sexual assault."

"Wait, the sailors were attacked by a group of teenage girls?"

"No, sir. Sorry, sir. It was two teenagers; one boy, one girl. They were apprehended, sir."

"Of course they were apprehended, it was four against two."

"Actually, sir, they were apprehended by MPs on shore patrol. The teens gave themselves up willingly. The report seems to indicate that the sailors were incapacitated."

The admiral thought about this. "Where are they being held now?"

"They were taken to the on-shore sick bay, sir."

"Keep a close eye on them. Take them to the base security building. I want to observe the interrogation personally. I'll be there is less than 30 minutes."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Interrogation, sir?"

"Interview, then. I want to make sure we don't have a public relations disaster on our hands. Does that meet with your approval, lieutenant?" The admiral responded testily.

"Of course, sir. At once, sir."

The admiral hung up. He grabbed his cell phone from the night stand and quickly dialed from memory. "We may have a situation…"

* * *

Sabina couldn't hold it any longer. "Space boy?"

"Not here. Not now."

"But—"

"Not. Now." Alex said through tight lips.

"OK". Silence reigned for several minutes.

"I don't want to drag anyone else into this, OK?" Alex said softly.

"Anyone else?" Sabina wasn't sure what Alex meant.

"From the _company_ or the _bank_." Sabina looked at him blankly for a moment, then the light went off. She gave him the oh-I-get-it-now-sorry look. It reminded Alex so forcefully of Tom Harris that he almost had to laugh. Almost.

"But that may mean we'll have to play the 'our-daddy-can-beat-up-your-daddy' card, and use Edward's role as a journalist. If it blows up in our faces, it may mean they drag your dad—"

"_Our_ dad."

"—_our_ dad down here. But I doubt they'd want the publicity. I don't know what kind of flags there are on our records, if they spend too long poking around… And, well, I don't want to be owing the _company_ any favors."

The fell back into silence and waited. A few minutes later, an officer walked into the sick bay and led them across the street to another building. The sign in front read "Emergency Services." To Alex, it looked like a small police station. Inside, this sense was reinforced by the duty desk manned by a serious-looking MP, a real badass. The teen had the feeling that they weren't simply going to be issued an apology and sent on their way. He started to reconsider his decision not to call McDeere.

They were escorted into a room with a simple table, a few chairs and a large mirror on one wall. Alex and Sabina had seen enough police procedurals on TV to recognize an interrogation room when they saw one, though it lacked the bare cinderblock walls of the most grim and gritty shows. However, the door was left open and they were offered soft drinks—both Alex and Sabina accepted Cokes—so it didn't look like they were trying to intimidate the couple (much).

The officer, who had introduced himself as Lt. Wilson, returned with the sodas and shut the door behind him. "I need to take your statement, but first I would like to ask once again whether you need medical attention."

Alex cut in, "Look, we're fine. We're not going to press charges. We just want to go home."

Wilson looked coolly at the boy. "You beat up four of our sailors. It's not clear you would be the one to press charges."

"Those men were dead drunk." Alex objected. "One of them was raving. You should tell your men when the start seeing little green men and little pink elephants, they should head back to the boat."

"_It's 'ship'"_ muttered the officer. Alex continued as if he hadn't noticed. "We were afraid for our safety. The X-Files guy passed out without anyone laying a finger on him. Another of them literally got a slap on the wrist for trying to grope my sister. Yes, I hit one and kicked another, but they started swinging first."

In the next room, Admiral Fleming was watching the proceedings through the one-way mirror. "Little green men?" he asked the lieutenant commander standing beside him.

"One of the sailors is claiming that we are looking at the British astronaut that was picked up off the coast of Australia last year."

"So, he was blind drunk?"

"Well, the rumor was that the astronaut was fairly young-looking, but yeah, the seaman was pretty drunk. "

The admiral considered the situation for a moment. "I still don't like the timing. If we had kept to the original schedule, it would have been very awkward to have civilians on base. If there had been a solitary sailor involved, these kids would still be over in sick bay, with a duty officer who is very inclined to be solicitous, even fatherly. While the girl was being seen to, perhaps the boy could have slipped away to observe who was arriving for a meeting. What do we know about these kids?"

"Sabina and Alex Pleasure, according to their ID. Library card and debit card, no picture ID. Easily faked, for what it's worth."

"We have an address?"

"Yes, sir. The address is listed as that of Edward Pleasure."

"Edward Pleasure? Why do I recognize that name?"

"You probably saw him interviewed on TV. He wrote that exposé on Damian Cray."

"A journalist? Damn it. What's the chance he put them up to this?"

"I don't think that's likely. It must just be a coincidence, just a simple unpleasant incident," the junior officer demurred.

"Where others see coincidence, I see conspiracy," stated the admiral firmly. "A mere boy takes down four grown men? I don't like it… Plus, they don't look like brother and sister…. Hmm, maybe we should 'accidentally' let them get a look around, see that there is nothing going on tonight… No, forget it, cut them loose. But get Peterson over in Naval Intelligence on the horn in the morning and ask him to run the Pleasures through the system. I need to know whether we need to do something about Edward Pleasure. We're too close to an important juncture to get sloppy now."

* * *

The lieutenant had offered to call a cab, but the teens turned it down. Sabina was dying to get Alex alone. When they were several blocks from the base, Alex said in a flat voice, "Go ahead and ask."

"Ask?" Sabina responded in a fake butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth tone.

"Oh, give over. I know you want to ask about the 'space boy' thing..."

"Weeell, if you insist... what the bloody hell was that?"

"Did you ever here of the Ark Angel space hotel?" Alex started slowly.

"Of course, everyone has. There was an accident; they had to abandon construction. It's not supposed to be salvageable. What does that have to do with you? Wait... no! No way!"

"There was a bomb on the space station. It was going to be used as an excuse to bring the entire thing down on Washington and make it look like an accident. The world's largest insurance scam."

"So, with the entire world to choose from, they sent you? You're pulling my leg!"

"There was no time. And I was the only one available who could fit in the monkey suit."

"Now you're making fun of me! They sent you in a tuxedo?"

"Not a 'monkey suit'..." he said, making air quotes, "... a spacesuit designed for a monkey. An ape, actually."

"God... that's just... god."

"Well said," the boy stated dryly.

"Get stuffed. I can't believe you didn't tell me! My boyfriend, the astronaut."

"I just tried to put it behind me," Alex said quietly.

"But, but... what was it like?" Sabina asked, shaking her head gently from side to side.

"Lonely."

"Lonely? I... what?"

"I thought I was up there by myself. I felt so cut off..., so alone..."

Sabina noticed his phrasing. "You _thought_ you were alone?" She stopped walking.

Alex walked on a few more steps before halting as well. He turned back to look at the girl. "It turned out I was stuck up there with a homicidal maniac. And there was only one seat home."

"Oh, Al!" She stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. "What... what happened?"

"I... he... I don't want to talk about it." He looked down at her feet.

"And the guy behind the whole deal? Previn?"

"Drevin."

"He didn't die rushing to his son's side, did he? Your comment the other day- the one about billionaires?- you weren't just talking about Cray, were you?"

Alex didn't reply immediately. "I don't want to talk about it. Let's get home."

Sabina slipped her arm around his waist. Alex tensed for a moment, then put his arm around her shoulders. They walked the rest of the way home in silence.

* * *

"Admiral, sir, you have a call on Line 1."

"Thank you, ensign." He punched the button and said tersely, "Admiral Fleming."

"Sir, this is Bill Peterson. Is this line secure?"

"Hold on a moment." He punched a button, then another. "You still there? Go ahead."

"I ran the names you requested, sir. The results were… unexpected. On the surface, everything checked out. However, I noticed some anomalies in the boy's – Alex Pleasure's – information. I checked their immigration records and the family has gone in and out of the country several times in the last couple of years. The boy, however, only has a single entrance record from a few weeks ago."

"So that means—"

"Wait, sir. There's more. I decided to re-run the search with elevated privileges. At this higher clearance, I was able to see that Alex Pleasure has an alias – Alex Rider. That's 'Rider' with an 'i'. Even at the higher clearance, I was not able to get much information from the cross-referenced record. But get this, further inquiries are directed to MI6. There was one notation in the comments field that looks like a dossier reference number. I suspect that it was mis-keyed as a comment, instead of a cross-reference. My suspicion is that I would not have even seen this reference if it had been entered properly."

"Why do you say that?"

"The prefix for the ref number indicates that it is a State Department file."

"Perhaps it is innocuous, like a green card application?"

"No, that would have been coded for INS. This prefix indicates that the dossier is eyes-only for the Secretary's office. But that's not all—the Rider file had a trip wire on it. Within 20 minutes of my calling the file up, two goons from Internal Affairs were sniffing around."

"God, what did you tell them?"

"I didn't tell them anything. You don't think I would do your dirty work using my own account, do you? I was using the credentials of a Special Agent down the hall. The idiot uses a strict rotation of the same 24 passwords. They took him away this afternoon, and I haven't seen him since. I think I'm clean, for now. But I've burned one of my best set of credentials."

"An MI6 agent with ties to the Secretary of State's office, posing as a teenager? That's bizarre."

"They must be on to us, sir. We need to shut down. At the very least, we need to call off next week's meeting."

The admiral did not respond immediately, thinking it over. "Wait… think about it… if you were initiating surveillance, who would you assign? They could have gone to Naval Intelligence, NCIS, JAG, FBI, NSA… there are dozens of organizations that would be more appropriate than MI-frigging-6. We're ready to deliver the entire Pacific Fleet."

"Even if they suspect," he continued, "they are so frightened of the condition of their own internal power base that they're going to the _BRITS_? Given the current strained relations with the UK? If we jump at our own shadow, we could be losing the best chance to put this country back on course."

"We thought we were the ones driving the agenda. But what if we are the ones who are late to the party? We could lose our chance to shape the movement, and for what? Because a fresh-faced spy straight out of boot camp was in the wrong place at the wrong time? No, forget it. I've seen this kid; he can't have even finished training – at best, he's just a raw recruit. They're really scraping the bottom of the barrel. We've already got them scared, and we haven't even fired the first shot."

"The good news is that if we do have a leak, it can't be among the principals. Whoever it was didn't know about the schedule change… But you're right, we can't move forward with the meeting with this hanging over us. On the other hand, if we don't go ahead, we could be losing a golden opportunity. We need more information. We need to question this 'boy'."

"Sir? Perhaps we could just supply an anonymous tip that there is a foreign agent on American soil. We have assets at the FBI. If they're waved off, we'll know he's being protected by the administration."

"No. No, there's too much chance of an ambiguous response. If you'd seen this guy, you'd know that he can easily pass as a teenager. If the Fibbies don't take the information seriously, it may just be that they've got their heads up their ass. Then we've tipped our hand and gotten nothing back."

"No, we have to grab this guy and sweat him for information. Prepare for an extraordinary rendition."

* * *

**A/N: OK, I promise Admiral Fleming won't try to adopt Alex. But a military coup is timeless.**

**I hope to get some more interaction between Alex and his schoolmates, but I have billed this as an "Alex Rider Adventure", so I've got to start at least hinting of some future action.**


	6. Image Enhancement

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Image Enhancement**

There was a knock at the door. She resisted the urge to grab another peppermint from the bowl on her desk. "Come in."

"You asked to see me, ma'am?" His impassive face showed no sign of curiosity.

"Yes, Crawley. I just got off the phone with the Prime Minister's assistant." A slight tightening around the women's eyes as she said this made the man suspect that Blunt, her predecessor, would have spoken to the PM directly. "They want us to parade Alex before the press to clear Sir David's good name. Apparently, the brilliant legal minds in charge of the PM's campaign financing feel that since we never paid Alex, that makes him a serial volunteer. So that makes everything alright."

"Sir David got to the PM, then?"

"Obviously. You can tell Fredericks that his intel on the new wing of the Children's Hospital being dedicated to the PM's wife is validated." Her hand twitched toward the peppermint bowl, but she straightened a pen on her desk instead.

"Surely we're not going-"

Mrs. Jones cut him off. "Don't be daft. Of course not. But I almost want to follow orders to see how they would handle the political firestorm. But I think we can give Sir David what he needs without producing a body. I've been thinking we needed to lance this boil anyway. The story is not following the natural lifecycle of a news story, even one with sensational elements like this one. Someone is milking this story for their own purposes. Now we can make a public move without fear of political blowback."

"Here is what we are going to do...", she said, as she unwrapped a peppermint.

* * *

Spike knocked on the kitchen door. He could see Mrs. Pleasure standing at the counter, finishing her tea as she waded through the mail. She gave him a smile, and opened the door.

"Hi, is Alex home? He was going to help me with my French essay…"

"Hello, dear. He and Sabina should be home soon. Why don't you head upstairs and wait for him. I need to run a few quick errands. You'll be OK by yourself?"

"No prob, Mrs. P." Spike went upstairs with every intention of getting a jump on the essay. French just wasn't his subject. Alex was supposed to be helping him "polish" it, but in fact he hadn't even started it. But Spike made the mistake of sitting on the bed… and then leaning on the bed. Within ten minutes, he was asleep.

* * *

Sabina got home first. No cars in the garage, the doors locked, Alex's bike nowhere to be seen. She headed to her room. In the last few days, she had become a news junkie, and she needed her fix. She was quickly rewarded. She came across a video clip of a press conference conducted by the British Home Office regarding the Point Blanc affair.

Sabina watched it in silence, soaking it in. Interesting. It was getting to end of the prepared statement when she heard one of the stairs creak. She quickly reached over and paused the video. "Alex?"

"Hey, Sab. How are you?" he came in and gave her a peck on the check. "What're you watching?"

"A presser on Point Blanc. I'm not sure what to make of it. Check it out." She dragged the cursor back to the beginning of the video. "Here, let me turn up the volume." She let him watch it without comment, seeing his eyes dart around the screen as he took it all in.

The story they were putting forward was that the attempt to introduce the phony Point Blanc alumni into their unsuspecting families had failed in a number of subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Changes in personality and holes in their memories had spurred complaints to the police. This had led to the conclusion that the school was engaging in brainwashing or intense indoctrination, and an investigation was launched. Alex had to admit this was a smooth political move. It bought the continued silence of those powerful families by assigning them the credit for initiating the investigation. It also downplayed the very real threat to the political, economic and military fabric of Europe that the conspiracy had embodied.

The spokesman continued on to say that they had attempted to infiltrate the staff of Point Blanc. This had failed, for obvious reasons. This had left inserting a student. They had scoured the service academies looking for a cadet who could pass for fourteen, with some cosmetic changes.

"Cosmetic changes?" Sabina asked.

"They gave me an earring."

"Ooh, sexy. You should wear it."

"Bad idea; it was explosive. I'm kind of attached to that side of my head. It kind of balances things out. Now, shush."

The spokesman was interrupted by a question from the press pool about how a cadet could pass for fourteen. The fact that the spokesman tolerated the interruption suggested that the question had been planted, or that he had at least been prepared for it. He referenced his notes and said, "I only have a notation here about a glandular problem. I can't say anything else."

Sabina blurted out, "Glandular problem?"

"Well, all my glands were fourteen years old. They now consider that a problem."

When the clip was finished, Alex slowly nodded. "Well, I have to hand it to MI6, it's quite the smokescreen."

"What do you mean?"

In the next room, Alex's voice woke his friend from a light doze. He groggily tried to remember where he was, rubbing his face in hopes of waking himself up. It did nothing for his dry mouth. The conversation in Sabina's room continued.

"Well, first off, MI6 is never mentioned. They have a representative from the Home Office and they make mention of Scotland Yard and Interpol, but MI6 is out of the picture. This is probably a given, but it gives the impression that this was standard police work."

Spike followed the sound of voices, still not entirely awake.

"Why does it matter? It's pretty well established that the raid on Point Blanc was a military operation."

Spike glanced over at a mirror hanging in the hallway just as he raised his hand to knock on Sabina's door. He suddenly realized he looked a mess. His hair was sticking up every which way. And he must of have been sleeping on a spiral notebook, as there was a rather strange red mark running down his face. He tried to smooth down his hair, but nothing was working.

"But they put a lot of emphasis on the identity theft. They make it sound like they went to all this trouble just to steal credit card numbers and passwords. They don't want to have to talk about the clones or the plastic surgery."

Spike stopped what he was doing. _Clones? Plastic surgery? What the – ?_

Alex continued. "But look at the security at the news conference." He dragged the slider back to the beginning of the clip, as the man from the Home Office walked into the room. On the dais were four soldiers.

"These three here are SAS. The best of the best. Not a one of them under 6'3". The smallest is probably sixteen or seventeen stone. And they're all about 30… This bloke on the end, though… 5'9", perhaps 18 years old, if that… he looks like a baby compared to the others. And he's not wearing the flying dagger, the SAS insignia. I'm guessing he's regular army. He's wearing an SAS lid – uh, hat – but I guess they thought that would be too obvious to single him out that blatantly. They even matched my hair color."

Sabina objected, "But they don't claim he's you! They don't even mention him."

"Actually, if you watch carefully, the inspector from Scotland Yard sort of turns toward the guy every time he mentions the 'volunteer'. They just want to create enough plausible doubt that the press gives it a rest. That a baby-faced soldier or agent could be found that could pass for my age. And he does look enough like me to make Sprintz start to doubt himself. That bloke wouldn't have passed muster at Point Blanc, but put next to those SAS gorillas, it's easy to start to have second thoughts. At least they've cleared Sir David's name. He certainly comes across as a civic-minded patriot- which, of course, he was. Fiona's complaints are still left hanging, in my opinion. They didn't do a very convincing job brushing those aside."

"The downside is that, essentially, they've admitted I exist. It'll be harder to downplay any other reports that may be swirling around."

Spike shifted his weight and the floorboard beneath him creaked. Alex motioned for Sabina to remain quiet, and grabbed a field hockey stick leaning against the wall. He wrenched open the bedroom door and came face-to-face with his friend. Who was completely frozen except for his eyelids, which were blinking rapidly.

There was a moment of silence. Then Alex broke into a smile. "Spike! Mate! We totally got you! You totally bought it!" Alex took in his friend's disheveled look, bleary eyes and spiral "tattoo" in a moment.

"Wha—?"

"We thought you'd never wake up. We had to babble on for a lot longer than we expected. We were running out of material! Right, Sab?" Sabina nodded silently, but couldn't shake the deer-in-the-headlights look.

Alex grabbed the conversational baton back. "You Yanks! You're, like, 'you're from England? Have you met Prince William?' I knew that just because I'm British and named Alex, you would fall for it. You should see your face! Sab, you were awesome—you followed my lead like a pro! Brilliant."

"Right. Of course." Sab limped into the conversation. "Ha, ha, got you!"

_OK, Sabina does not have a future on the stage,_ Alex thought. _I have to separate them. _"OK, let's get on that French essay, shall we?"

Spike followed wordlessly, still blinking rapidly. He couldn't believe they had been acting for his benefit—but the alternative was too outrageous to contemplate. He buried his doubts to avoid looking like a complete rube. But he couldn't shake how convincing they had sounded...

* * *

"I heard you were on base." Wolf recognized the slight Scottish burr before he turned around.

"Snake, mate. Heard from who?"

"Mongoose." The medic dropped a couple of newspapers on the table as he took a seat on the mess hall bench across from his former unit leader. "I'm assigned to the hospital while my unit waits to be re-supplied. He should be out in a couple of days, by the way. Just a bad sprain."

This Hispanic man muttered something about "pansies" under his breath. "Thanks for the news. I'll probably swing by this afternoon if I'm not sent back out on patrol."

The taller man nodded towards the newspapers. "Have you been following this business about that French school, Point Blanc?"

Wolf tensed. "Not really. Why do you ask?"

"Because I finally got that reference you made to ironing boards," the Scot said, grinning.

Wolf groaned and let his head fall back. "Give me a break, mate. I never thought this would turn into tabloid fodder. I could get binned for what I said."

"No worries, Wolf. I'm just taking the piss out of you for running us ragged at the Beacons. But I have to say that I find it hard to believe that - what was it? Pup? -"

"Cub."

"- that Cub could pass for fourteen." He shook his head. "I guess you see what you expect to see."

"I don't know. I saw him at that school, and it was hard to picture him at BB. Sure, he didn't carry himself like the other students- but he didn't look all that much older than the others." Wolf looked around the mess. "Given that operational integrity has already been shot to blazes... well, he wasn't rated to carry a firearm."

"What? He went into a hostage situation unarmed?" The medic snorted in anger.

"He could improvise, I'll give him that. Unarmed or not, he ended up taking out a helicopter - with a snowmobile." There was a hint of amusement on the normally dour man's face.

"You mean he kept it from taking off by ramming it?"

"Nah. It was airborne." He held up his hands. "Helicopter," he said, shaking the lower hand. "Snowmobile," he continued, shaking the other hand. With a swooping motion, he brought the two hands together. "Ski jump. Not something I ever expect to see again. The helicopter was laying down suppressing fire. He probably saved some SAS lives that day. Add that to the hostages, and it is an impressive total of lives saved for such a short career."

"Short career? The article in the _British Forces News_ made it sound like he was forced to take a medical discharge. The collision with the train was pretty bad, I guess."

"He didn't collide with the train. He landed _on_ the train. It was the dismount that could of used a little help. Fortunately, the barbed wire broke his fall."

"Ouch."

"Tell me about it. But he must have the luck of the devil, because he was up and about the next day. Like I said, he was part of the assault team, since he knew the layout."

"Well, we were right about one thing... about him being a rich man's son. We just got the sequence wrong; he went from the Beacons to being adopted by a billionaire. I wonder we he didn't tell us to shove off. I mean, you were a right bastard-"

"Oi!"

"You know you were, mate. OK, we all were. Why didn't he put us in our place?"

"Operational security, I suppose. You've seen the list of families involved, right? The stink is bad enough now, and the operation was a success. Imagine if it had gone pear-shaped..." Wolf pursed his lips. "But you know, I don't buy the story of the medical discharge. He was still listed as active SAS several months later."

"How do you know that?"

"I was notified as his unit leader that he had an emergency appendectomy. So they were still tracking his medical condition at the time. I guess he's had a clean bill of health since then, because I haven't had any further medical reports. On the other hand, I haven't been notified of any updated certifications, or of a discharge. But I tell you, I don't think he would have made it in the SAS, or the regular army, for the matter."

"Why?"

"He was ordered back up the mountain to that school, and he refused."

"But I thought you said he was your guide?"

"He refused, until I told him I wouldn't allow him to go. The woman from SO-"

Snake interrupted, "SO? So MI6 _was_ involved?"

Wolf's shoulders drooped and his head bent forward. "_When you reach bottom, Wolf, stop digging._" He looked the other man in the eye. "I'm going to have to volunteer for more RTI training..." He continued, "She told me to refuse him permission. Reverse psychology. It works on my seven-year-old nephew, and it worked on him. One of the reasons I feel he was younger than we thought..."

Wolf rose, and the other man followed suit. The Hispanic soldier began to buss the table. "This may be splashed across the tabloids, but it's still covered by the OSA. If you spread this around, we could both be in a lot of trouble."

"No worries, mate. One thing though..."

"What?" Wolf replied with a long-suffering sigh.

"Did he really ride down the mountain at night on an _ironing board__?_"

* * *

Cecil tried to relieve the imagined crick in his wrist with a twist, then reached up and issued a perfunctory knock and entered the office. He was expected.

"Cecil. Thank you. Have you reviewed the latest news? Are we ready to proceed?" Cecil knew his superior only had a few minutes before his next meeting, so he cut the heart of the matter.

"There's been a change of plan, sir. While we've now made it impossible for them to deny the boy exists... well, we think those oafs at Six were a little too effective at letting Sir David off the hook. We feel we've lost a bit of leverage with the PM's office. That's why we feel the next phase should center around the Stormbreaker business."

His boss thought for a moment. Cecil knew better than to presume to assist his analysis. "Ah, yes. The shooting. There was a press pool there, if I recall correctly?"

"Precisely, sir. The journalists in attendance were a fairly tame lot, which is why MI6 was able to control the story so effectively. But mix in the hero of Point Blanc, and the press might rediscover a thirst for the truth."

"Excellent. I approve. Proceed."

* * *

**A/N: My apologies to native speakers of the King's (Queen's?) English. I am piecing together my British turns of phrase from dimly remembered episodes of _Monty Python_. Oh, and congratulations on the Diamond Jubilee!**

**I think this chapter should have come before the previous one. I wanted to create a little more tension around his secret before diving into the action. Just imagine that it takes a really long time to plan an abduction.**

**On re-reading, I realized that people spend a lot of time knocking on doors in Alex's universe...**


	7. Of Fish and Men

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Of Fish and Men**

"Okay, settle down. Find your seats." First period and everyone was still socializing with their friends. Alex heard one reference to Point Blanc and nearly snapped his pencil in two. He spotted Spike across the classroom. The other boy hadn't said anything since overhearing the conversation in Sabina's room, but Alex thought he could see the wheels continue to spin in his friend's head.

"Class, today we are starting a series of units on the Constitution. The units will be structured as a series of debates on constitutional matters. Each of you will be randomly assigned to one side of the debate or the other for one of the units. Fifteen percent of your grade for the term will be determined by how well you marshal your arguments."

He woke his laptop from hibernation and turned on the smart board to display the slide show he had prepared.

"The first unit is titled 'Civil Liberties and the War on Terror'." He flipped through a montage of quotes and images.

_They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety. - Benjamin Franklin_

An image of the recovery workers at Ground Zero.

___Extremism in the defense_ of liberty is no vice - Barry Goldwater

A headline about the Shoe Bomber, quickly followed by an image of travelers waiting at an airport security checkpoint with their shoes and belts off.

_If our First Amendment rights suffer as a result of the awful domestic terrorist attack in Oklahoma City the terrorists have indeed, won. - editorial in Ocala Star-Banner_

Alex's breath caught as an image flashed up of the previous British prime minister standing on the steps of the Science Museum, waving off the assistance of the medics trying to treat his hand injury after the "attempted assassination". This picture had become a symbol of resolute courage, as he had neither accepted a bullet-proof vest nor rushed off to a hidden bunker. _If the public only knew..._

Alex was brought back to the moment by the sound of the teacher's voice. "OK, if your last name starts with A to...", he referred to his attendance book, "... J, then you are assigned to prepare to debate this topic. The specific focus will be to defend or oppose the passage of the PATRIOT Act. For now, prepare arguments on both sides, and next week I will inform you of which side you are assigned to. Now, everyone is responsible for reading Chapters 1 and 2..."

* * *

Alex moved to the next kiosk. He still had no idea what to get Sabina. They had been going out for several weeks, and he had never bought her anything. One trouble was that he didn't have any money of his own. The Royal and General hadn't released his uncle's estate, or even told him under what conditions he could gain control of the funds. Alex had thought about getting a job, but Liz had been adamant that Alex not worry about that for now. So Edward had given him some money; Alex had to admit to feeling a bit strange about using the man's money to buy his daughter a gift.

Edward hadn't exactly showered him with money. The allowance was fine for the normal day-to-day expenses of a teenager, but for buying a gift... Alex was definitely in the it's-the-thought-that-counts budgetary territory. The teen was not familiar with where to shop for bargains in San Francisco. He certainly couldn't ask Sabina. He might of thought to ask Emily, but he was not sure he could count on the girl's discretion; she was a bit of a blabbermouth. And to tell the truth, Alex was avoiding Spike a bit to prevent any follow-up questions to the little press conference video fiasco.

In desperation, he had gravitated towards one of San Francisco's most popular tourist traps: Fisherman's Wharf. He couldn't afford something expensive and tasteful, but maybe he could get points for something cheap and showy. That was why he found himself moving from kiosk to kiosk looking at the outdoor vendors' wares on and around the Wharf.

There was a cute young girl manning the next kiosk. Alex would have assured anyone who asked that this had nothing to do with why he wandered over to look at her goods, but... she flashed him a smile. "Can I help you?" There was some cheap jewelry on the shelves, but what had caught Alex's eye was the oversized scarves hanging from the roof of the kiosk.

"Can I see that one?" Alex asked tentatively, pointing to one of the scarves. The girl was wearing one, folded in a somewhat complicated fashion, such that it looked somewhere between a shawl and neckerchief. There were pictures around the kiosk of the all the various ways to wear it: as a beach wrap, a sarong, etc. Alex assumed Sabina would know what to do with it. He could definitely see her using it as a beach wrap, at least.

When he was handed the scarf he had pointed at, he saw that it was printed, rather than dyed or woven - and it was only printed on one side. _I guess that's why it's so cheap._ The synthetic fabric was... durable. _Hmm, just what a girl is looking for, 'durable'._ Still, he had been looking for a while, and this was the first thing in his price range that had any sort of style. He did have the dashing super-spy image to live up to. _sigh._

He turned to pay, and caught a flash of blue and gray out of the corner of his eye. Something tickled the back of his mind. As he completed the transaction, he looked around casually. A well-built Asian man, or perhaps Pacific islander, was looking through a clothing bin. He was wearing a gray t-shirt and had a blue jacket draped over his arm. Neither the blue nor the gray were particularly noteworthy, but Alex knew he had seen the combination earlier. As he stuffed the scarf into the inside pocket of his windbreaker, Alex remembered that he had seen the man earlier - but then he had been wearing the jacket. And he wasn't entirely sure, but he may have seen the man even earlier with the jacket off.

Now, the man looked too young and too masculine to be dealing with menopausal hot flashes, so why the wardrobe changes? _OK, I'm definitely getting paranoid. Still..._ He moved onto the next vendor, a toy kiosk, and positioned himself so he could see both mirrors on the sunglasses stand just beyond. The Asian man glanced towards Alex a couple of times, but Alex was still not convinced he wasn't imagining things.

"You going to buy that?"

Alex looked up at the owner of the kiosk, a little nonplussed that he had let the man get so close without noticing him. "Huh? This?" The teen glanced down at the robot dog that he was holding - a bit too tightly. It was definitely out of his price range. "Um, no. But I'll take, er... this." Alex picked up a superball that was fairly inexpensive. He hoped he hadn't been caught checking out the man following him.

Alex started away from the wharf. How was he going to be both sure of his suspicions, yet create some separation?

As he walked down the street along a series of storefronts, he saw just what he needed. He darted forward towards the door of large shop. He was pretty sure that he heard some footsteps quicken behind him. Ian had pointed out that entrance doors were very useful. For one, they were somewhat reflective, and you could control their position, so you could use them to see behind you. But they were also a natural place to change your pace. You could dart forward to catch a closing door, or you could stop to let someone else enter before you. How Ian was able to communicate this information to Alex without making it blindingly obvious that he was a spy, Alex hadn't a clue.

But for now, Alex darted forward to wrench open the door to the shop - to let a women with a double stroller navigate the doorway without getting tangled up in the door. The teenager made such a grand gesture opening the door that he was now facing almost back the way he had come. He could see the Asian man rushing forward; the man couldn't change direction or speed without drawing attention to himself. As the mother shot Alex a grateful, harried look, the boy waved his follower through the doorway.

Alex stood aside and did not look the man directly in the face. He did not want to spur the man into trying something drastic. He hoped the man didn't realize he'd been made. But as the man brushed past, Alex's blood ran cold. Peeking out from beneath the sleeve of the man's t-shirt, he could see the edge of a red, circular tattoo. His mind flashed back to the Big Circle tattoo he had seen on the "security guard" at Wimbledon. _They were supposed to leave me alone! MI6 said they had a deal!_

Alex let the door swing shut, and continued down the street the way he had been traveling. He moved as quickly as he could without appearing to flee. As he reached the corner, he turned up the hill away from the waterfront. He pulled out his phone and dialed McDeere. After two rings, the agent picked up. "This is Alex," he hissed, "I'm being followed. I think he's from the Big Circle triad. You know, from Wimbledon."

"Triad? Wimbledon?"

"Never mind. Just know that they tried to kill me twice, and were supposedly bought off by MI6." The teen glanced behind him, but still did not see the man who had been following.

"OK, I've got your location. I can have a team there in... 15 minutes. Stall him."

"I thought you said my phone couldn't be tracked?" Alex replied indignantly.

The agent replied calmly, "I said the bad guys couldn't track it."

"Whatever. I've got to go. It's probably best if he doesn't know I've contacted anyone." With that, Alex shoved his phone back in his pocket. He continued to power up the hill, putting some distance between himself and where he had last seen his tail. As the crowds thinned out, he could pick up his pace a bit without obviously barreling through people. He was glad he had kept up his fitness training, as the uphill climb was not cutting into his wind at all.

The teen moved to cross the street, and used the opportunity to glance down the hill. The man was still following him, but didn't appear to be rushing to close the gap. _Perhaps I'm being flushed into a trap?,_ the former spy thought. This, in turn, made him realize that as he moved up the hill and away from the crowds, he might eventually find himself in an area where he could be attacked unobserved. He turned at the next corner, thinking to work his way back to the heavier pedestrian traffic without obviously backtracking.

This proved to be a mistake. The block was lined with warehouses with few doorways; many of the windows were painted over. There were almost no pedestrians in sight along this canyon of buildings. Alex picked up the pace while he was out of sight of the Asian man. After a bit, he forced himself to slow down. He didn't want to appear to be suspicious. His heart was beating faster than normal, and his breath was coming in short gasps. He realized that he was on the verge of panic, and deliberately calmed himself.

From the other direction, three boys a couple of years younger than Alex were approaching. With ripped jeans and hoodies, they were definitely going for the skater look. In fact, one of them was carrying a skateboard. Alex felt a prickly sensation in the center of his back - he could imagine the man behind him taking aim. As he moved towards the building to skirt the group, Alex tried to use the opportunity to peek behind him. He ducked his head and turned - and looked straight into the eyes of the man fifteen yards behind him. He froze for a moment, and saw the realization blossom on the man's face that Alex was aware he was being trailed. _Bugger this,_ thought the teen. He darted forward and grabbed the skateboard from the loose grip of its owner. _Great, now I'm a serial skateboard thief_, he thought as he raced forward.

"Hey, f-wad!" shouted the board's owner. The youths had barely started after Alex when the man plowed through the group. Alex slapped the board down on the street and after a couple of driving thrusts, planted his feet and banked into a turn down the hill at the next corner. He was lucky- the road had been repaved sometime in the last year. He could bomb down the hill, gathering speed with each passing second. He tried to bleed off a little speed with some slalom maneuvers, but he was soon going quite fast. If he tried to jump off now, "road rash" was a likely outcome at best. Without a helmet, more serious injuries were a definite possibility. And he couldn't afford to be incapacitated at all.

He was preparing to flair out to bleed off some speed, when he saw an alternate solution. The next intersection had a pedestrian crossing timer, counting down the seconds until the light changed. He had plenty of time to reach the intersection, but that isn't what had caught his attention. On the other side of the intersection was a landscaping truck with its tailgate hanging open. More importantly, the truck was full of mulch.

Alex picked his line and headed for the truckbed. As he entered the intersection, Alex saw that there was a cable car channel running across the intersection. If he caught a wheel... At last moment, he performed an ollie to clear the channel. As he landed the maneuver, he immediately launched himself into the truck. _Hummph!_

He was winded, but everything was still attached, so he felt lucky. He jumped down from the truck as a couple of people ran to see if he was alright. He took a moment to unzip his jacket and let some of the mulch fall to the street. He glanced up and down the avenue. _There's never a cable car when you need one._ He brushed some more mulch off his shirt as he tried to decide what to do. His hand encountered the scarf he had brought for Sabina. He looked at the cable channel where he could hear the hum of the cable as it moved continuously beneath the surface of the seat. A plan came together.

He grabbed the skateboard from where it had become wedged under the truck's tire. He took the superball he had bought earlier and tied it into one corner of the scarf. Though the traffic light had turned green, the cars had not started to move, as the drivers were rubbernecking - trying to see whether Alex was OK. The teen searched for the man who had been following him, and immediately spotted him a couple of blocks up the hill. He had stopped and was facing up the hill at the moment. _He's flagging down a car! He's not alone!_

Alex ran into the street with the scarf in this hand and the board under his arm. _This better work, _he thought. He stopped, straddling the cable car channel and looked down at the cable hurtling along beneath his feet. He flung the ball down and bounced it off the bottom of the channel. With the scarf now looped around the cable, he wrapped the ends of the scarf around his hands, stepped on to the board, and then pulled back on the scarf.

If he hadn't wrapped the scarf around his hands, Alex was sure it would have been ripped from his grasp. As it was, he nearly lost the board. In his imagination, he had pictured applying more or less pressure with the scarf in order to control his speed. But in actuality, the braided cable was nowhere near smooth enough for that kind of subtle control. Loose strands had dug into the scarf and were not going to let go easily. This was a one-time ticket. Alex would have to choose his exit wisely.

Cable cars are not particularly speedy. In a straight race, the car that was now tailing him should have been able to catch up easily. But the teenager had quickly amassed an entourage. Sure, in the first few moments on this crazy ride, a couple of aggressive drivers accelerated past him to get clear of the idiot on the skateboard. But it didn't take long to generate a rolling roadblock of conservative drivers who didn't want to be featured on the evening news for running over a kid.

After a couple of minutes of dodging potholes, he realized he was pushing his luck. He also realized he recognized the area he was now in. When Alex had visited over the Easter holiday, the Pleasures had taken him for sushi in a part of the city known as Japantown. Alex unwrapped the scarf from around his hands and released it as he hit a slight rise. This reduced his speed enough that he could jump of the board and hit the ground running with little risk of stumbling. He took one last look at the scarf disappearing down the street, one end flapping in the wind, the other bouncing down the street. He wondered whether he would get credit for buying the gift if he hadn't been able to give it to his girlfriend. He might try the a-funny-thing-happened-while-I-was-bringing-home-your-gift approach, but he guessed that would depend on how this whole thing worked out. He had to keep moving.

He had hoped to find the area packed with tourists. But, besides for a handful of souvenir shops, Japantown was primarily a restaurant district. As it was not yet lunchtime, there weren't as many pedestrians as he had expected. He glanced over his shoulder. Seeing no sign of pursuit, he dodged into the next restaurant he came to.

He entered a poorly-lit room with a hostess station. The room was currently deserted. There were two rooms off of this one. From the sounds coming from the right, that was the dining room - currently being prepped for lunch service. Looking through the doorway to the left, Alex could see a goldfish pond, a statue of Buddha, and a rather sad looking tree that seemed to be barely propped up by the bamboo support it was lashed to. He imagined that if went around the screen at the other side of the koi pond, he would find a bar. He thought about going into the dining room, but he didn't want to involve any civilians if he could avoid it. _Perhaps I could crouch behind Buddha..._

* * *

When the traffic suddenly cleared, the man realized the subject had probably abandoned his unorthodox vehicle. "Let me out here. Circle to the north until you hear from me." He could still salvage this mission...

He got out of the car and surveyed the thin crowd. There was nothing about the pattern of movement that told him where his quarry had gone. He had a moment of doubt, but then he spotted a skateboard in the gutter. He had no way of knowing that it was the same board, but the chances that someone else had coincidentally abandoned one here seemed slight. He moved forward, looking from side to side for anything out of the ordinary.

He looked down, and a thin smile formed. On the ground was a subtle trail of mulch leading into Japantown. Within half a block, the trail ended at a restaurant. He pulled out his phone and called the man in the car. The car was already several blocks north of here and would take some time circling back. He gave him the address. Now he had a choice- wait for the other man to arrive and cover the back of the restaurant, or proceed on his own... He was damned if he was going to let that little runt rabbit out the back of the place while he was cooling his heels out front. He pushed upon the door.

The trail of mulch led off to the left, toward a statue of Buddha. The man moved forward confidently. He stopped abruptly as Alex pivoted out from behind the tree. "What do you want with me?"

"I don't want to hurt you kid. We just want to ask you a few questions."

Alex gave him a pained, fake smile. "It's never a good sign when someone starts a conversation with 'I don't want to hurt you'. I'm thinking that's a pretty big tell." The teen smirked. "And I have a pretty good idea what kind of questions you are going to ask. I can save us both a lot of time by giving you the answers now: 'Yes, that hurts.'"

The man moved forward to grab the youth. Alex lifted his foot as he brought up the bamboo stick he had been holding against his leg. The tree sprang up into the man's face, causing him to rear back instinctively to protect his eyes. At that instant, Alex jabbed him in the solar plexus with the staff and the man curled forward. The teen then delivered a roundhouse kick that snapped the man's head to the side, but otherwise did not seem to affect him. A second roundhouse seemed to do the trick, as the man's eyes rolled up into his head. For good measure, Alex delivered a palm strike to the chest, and the man toppled back into the fish pond.

Alex checked that the man's face was above the waterline, then quickly frisked him. He came up with a handgun of a model he was not familiar with from a shoulder holster. _Overconfident much?_ Or perhaps he had been ordered not to make a scene. I guess the parade down the cable car route probably blew that plan out of the water.

He took a moment to familiarize himself with the weapon, checking the magazine and the position of the safety. He moved into position behind the statue where he could cover the doorway while still have some protection. He settled in, calming his breathing.

He didn't have long to wait. Two men moved into the room in flanking positions on the entrance, guns drawn. In the dim lighting, they did not immediately spot the boy. Alex was deciding what to do when Frank and Helena entered the room. He remembered his Killing House training and spoke in a clear, firm voice: "Clear! Frank, Helena." He held the gun pointing at the ceiling with his palm open.

Frank quickly replied, "Clear!" He moved towards the teen. "Alex! Are you alright?" He then realized the implications that Alex was armed. "Where'd you get the gun?"

"I got it off the bad guy."

"Where is he now?"

"In the next room, playing koi."

* * *

**A/N: Every Alex Rider adventure needs one completely unlikely mode of transportation - so there you go! San Francisco is known for its cable cars, but Alex would never merely hop on a passing car. Nope, not him.**

**I have no idea how long it would take to get from Fisherman's Wharf to Japantown. But as the San Francisco naval base has been shut down for decades, I have already established that this does not take place in our universe. So it takes however long I say it does. My apologies to anyone with a deep love of the city in our universe. I'm sure the abuses will continue. It could be worse; in an earlier draft, I had Alex taking the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) from one part of the city to another.**

**Jim Spriggs - You caught me. I had very little hope that "shag you" was actually a British expression, but I rationalized it so: Billy had just referred to Alex as an "international boy of mystery". This was supposed to be a reference to the Austin Powers movies (e.g., _The Spy Who Shagged Me_). This would have hit a little too close to home for Alex. The mangled idiom and the exaggerated accent were supposed to be sardonic. I didn't think a lame fifteen-year-old culture reference was worth a lot of exposition, so I made do with the bit about the accent. It's sort of a subtle dig at stupid Americans (like myself). Take some bad writing, add a little ironic spackle, and it's all good!**


	8. Bait and Ditch

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Bait and Ditch**

With a squeal of brakes and muffled _krummpf_, all attention was directed to the man lying unconscious in the gutter. "Is he breathing?" "Call an ambulance!" No one was paying attention to the teen leaning against the light pole across the narrow street. If they had, they might seen that he was holding on to the pole tightly with his eyes closed, for all the world as though the pole was the only thing keeping him upright._  
_

The driver of the car that stopped so suddenly jumped out of the car, not bothering to shut the car door. "Oh my god! Oh my god! I didn't see him!"

Another car pulled up and stopped, not trying to squeeze past the open car door. The new arrival took in the whole scene instantly. He slid out of his car and approached the boy. Alex barely opened his eyes and managed "Mmm?" before closing them again. The man peeled the teen's arm from around the pole, saying "Let's get you looked at." He kept him from collapsing as he easily manhandled him into the backseat of car.

The driver spared one look for the man in the gutter, and then quickly came to a decision and got back into his car. He backed up to the last cross street and drove away with the boy.

_How did I agree to this?_ Alex thought.

* * *

_[Minutes earlier...]_

McDeere looked down at the man they had dragged from the fish pond. He turned to Alex and said, "You say you recognized him?"

"No. I said I thought I recognized his tattoo." Frank patted the man down, but didn't come up with any identification. He did, however, find an empty shoulder holster (for the gun that he had confiscated from Alex) and a small leather case. When unzipped, the case folded open to reveal two hypodermic syringes.

"Well, well. This supports the theory that this was an abduction attempt, and not a hit."

Alex looked skeptical. "I don't know. If he's from Scorpia, that could be full of 'Invisible Sword', or just something to melt me slowly and painfully from the inside." The agent that had helped Frank pull the unconscious man from the water looked at Alex sharply at the casual mention of Scorpia, and raised his eyebrows at the teen's guesses.

Helena leaned over the man briefly and took a picture of the man's face. "I'll get this sent over to the office and see if we get a hit. Let's get a picture of that tattoo, as well."

They quickly removed the man's jacket and rolled up his sleeve. Alex had been expecting to see a simple red circle. He was shocked to see that instead what he had seen was the lower edge of a blood-red egg, hatching an adult cobra. McDeere gave a small grunt. One of the other agents said, "I recognize that. I forget it's official name, but its nickname is 'Bad Egg'. It's Special Forces."

"SEALs, actually," said McDeere. He looked at the teenager. "And you took him down?"

"What can I say? People underestimate me."

The agent shook his head. "Well, don't push your luck. If this guy really is a SEAL, 99 times out of a hundred, he'll rip your head off." Frank directed the two agents to cover the entrance and the doorway to the dining room. "If anyone comes in from the street," he said pointing to the main entrance, "you're from the Board of Health." Turning to the other man, he said, "If someone comes from the dining room, you want to talk about a reservation for lunch for a party of 20. We've got maybe 20 minutes before the lunch rush starts, and our story falls apart."

Alex broke in. "This guy wasn't alone. I saw him flag down a car. That must have been how he followed me here. I didn't get a good look, but it was a silverish gray sedan with a dent in the front quarter-panel. The emblem was missing from the front of the car, but I think it was an Audi. Just a driver, besides this bloke."

Frank looked at Alex for a moment. "But you didn't get a good look?"

"Well, I didn't get the license plate, did I?" he retorted defensively.

McDeere pointed Alex toward the hostess station, "Get me that paper there. No, the white piece." He removed one of the syringes from its case and squeezed a small amount onto one corner. He took a quick sniff. He examined the color of the paper where it had absorbed the solution. He touched another corner of the paper to the wet clothes of the man beneath him, and compared the color of the two wet corners. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he mumbled to Alex "Don't smoke, filthy habit..." and lit both corners of the paper. After comparing the color of the flames, he threw the paper into the pond. Alex watched this whole production with a quizzical look on his face.

"What's all this about then?"

The agent spared a moment for an explanation. "Ever since _CSI_ came out, half the potential recruits are interested in forensics. I need a few parlor tricks to keep them talking." He pulled out his phone and punched up an app. After entering some data, he shared the results. "The only possibility that makes sense is this one. It's a tranquilizer. And as you are coming out of it, you would have reduced inhibitions. In other words, a truth serum."_  
_

"That makes sense. You mentioned he did say they wanted to ask some questions." He called over to the agent by the entrance, "Radio the unit at the end of the street, and tell them to keep an eye out for a silver-gray sedan, possibly an Audi with a dent on the... right?" he asked, turning to Alex.

"Left."

"Left front quarter panel."

Helena got off the phone as she walked towards the pair. "This guy's dead."

"What? I didn't hit him that hard!" Alex exclaimed.

Helena responded dryly, "Apparently, you hit him hard enough to kill him six months ago in Pakistan."

"Huh?"

"He's down as KIA during a covert op in Pakistan. That could mean that he's been turned, but could just as easily mean that he has been seconded to a black ops team. Plausible deniability, and all that." McDeere was considering the situation when Alex broke his train of thought.

"Um, SEALs are Navy, right?" he asked hesitantly.

Frank cocked his head to the side. "Yeah, what of it?"

"I had a run-in the other night with a bunch of drunken sailors. One of them recognized me-"

"Recognized you?"

"From the retrieval- you know what? don't ask. Just... I was with my girlfriend, they were drunk... things spun out of control. No one was seriously hurt, and no one pressed charges... You don't think this was revenge? Because I humiliated some friends of his?" Alex looked doubtful.

"These drunk sailors... were SEALs?" McDeere looked even more doubtful than Alex.

"Nope. Regular sailors on shore leave from an aircraft carrier, as far as I could tell."

"Hmm, someone did access your record from Naval Intelligence a few days ago." Frank mused.

Alex felt a brief surge of anger. "And you were going to tell me this, when?"

"Nothing vital was leaked - the clearance level of the officer accessing the record was too low. He denied it, but that's to be expected as you are not supposed to be sniffing around files that you are not assigned to. But those guys are paid to add 2 and 2 and come up with 5. He might have had some hunch about the rumors about-" Frank lowered his voice. "- your French school. His clearance was yanked while the incident is under review. Given today's events, we'll circle back around and see what else he knows."

McDeere looked up at Helena. "Is there a goody bag in the trunk of your car?" he asked her.

"I didn't check," she replied. "There should be."

He directed the man by the door to fetch something from the car, and turned back to Alex. "Do you want to get to the bottom of this today?"

The teen pulled back a bit to look at the agent suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"Whoever this guy's friends are," he said, gesturing to the man on the floor, "they don't know that he's been compromised. If they thought he got injured after tranquilizing you... well, they might take you back for questioning. If we could track you..."

"You want to use me for _bait_?" Alex said in a low voice, his temper barely in check.

Frank shook his head. "I haven't seen your complete file. But I've seen enough to know that you're not so much bait, as a barbed hook. You go in easy, and do a lot of damage on the way out. It's your call. But either these people knew where to find you, or we have to believe that they just happened to be wandering around San Francisco when they recognized you."

Alex took a few calming breaths. Thinking of the danger he might be bringing to the Pleasures' doorstep, he could feel himself wavering. "I have a paper due on Monday."

Frank snorted. "It's not a school night. We can get you an essay, just give us the topic."

"I'd prefer to write my own. But if I need an excuse, you're coming up with something better than 'glandular fever'. Get the school fumigated or something... and this guy cost me a gift for my girlfriend. I had to sacrifice a scarf for my homemade cable car. You have to buy her something nice." Frank looked to Helena.

"Don't look at me," she said quickly, holding up her hands. "Just because I'm not burdened with a Y-chromosome, doesn't mean I know how to shop for a teenage girl. Maybe you can get something from Wardrobe."

"Nothing that explodes, please. She's not into that stuff." He looked back and forth between the two agents. "OK, I'll do it. You only got here a few minutes late. That's as close as I've ever gotten to having actual backup... I'll have to get a message to the Pleasures..."

* * *

So now, after a staged accident and a little playacting, Alex was in the backseat of the car that had been chasing him. The "goody bag" had contained a tracker that Alex had swallowed. It was coated with a layer of a digestible material that would allow it to be activated four hours after being swallowed. It could be used to track the teen for 2 to 3 days, "depending on how much roughage there was in his diet." Alex planned to stick to liquids if he could help it.

The car pulled to the side of the road within a mile of the restaurant. It took all of Alex's willpower to remain limp as the driver searched him. McDeere had warned him not to pretend to be completely unconscious; it was too easy to startle someone into revealing themselves. Instead, he made feeble protestations and made no attempt to open his eyes. Basically, he acted like any teenager before noon on a weekend.

Alex heard his phone thrown to the side of the ride. _Aww, I had some photos on that - should have downloaded them._ He thought briefly of his contact list, until he realized that after the Pleasures and Spike, the only other person he had called was Frank. _Now that's pathetic. Just sad, mate._ They took his watch as well, but that was just a cheap sports watch - not a Smithers special, no great loss._  
_

The car continued on for another few miles, then pulled off again. The driver was calling in the situation. "... target acquired... lost Red 1 ... struck by a car... unable to retrieve ..."

McDeere was going to make sure that a John Doe was admitted to the local hospital in "critical condition". The lack of identification and the concealed weapon would explain police involvement. The abductors would be forced to wait until his situation stabilized before they attempted an extraction. If an alphabet soup agency - including, God forbid, the CIA - swooped in to relieve the hospital of their charge, McDeere would get it straightened out then.

It was hard to tell while laying in the backseat whether the driver was engaged in evasive maneuvers. There were plenty of turns, but there were enough straightaways that it seemed that they must be taking a fairly direct route. Alex tried desperately to remember why he had trusted Frank to mobilize a large enough pursuit team to ensure he would not get out of range before the tracker was activated.

The car stopped for a third time. Alex was hoisted out of the car. He made only minimal effort to stand, forcing the driver to basically carry him. He risked cracking his eyes open for a moment, but was greeted with the view of a desolate lot along a canal or small river. He could see some industrial docks across the water. A second set of hands took some of his weight as he was brought around the back of the car. For a moment, he thought they were going to transfer him to the trunk, but they continued past the car. He heard the whine of an engine starting up, and felt a steadily increasing breeze on his face. His heart fell into his stomach as he recognized the _whup-whup-whup_ of helicopter blades.

Flashing back to the trip to Kenya, Alex had to force down a rising sense of panic. He really didn't know whether McDeere could manage a covert pursuit by air on such short notice. _How was your weekend, Alex?... Great, just flew down to Guantanamo Bay for the weekend - Gitmo is great this time of year!_

They pulled a hood over the teen's head. For a moment, this increased his sense that the situation was running out of control. Then his analytic sense kicked in; either they didn't want him to know where they were taking him, or there were observers from whom they wanted to hide his identity. Either option gave him something to work with.

"Get him strapped in." Alex let his head loll to the side as he flopped into a seat. He wondered whether he should be encouraged by the seat belt. Would they be concerned about his physical safety if they just planned on killing or torturing him? _Of course, it might just be force of habit._

The helicopter lifted off moments later. Alex tried to piece together what clues he could about the transport. The door that he had come through had slid shut. The seat belt holding him in place felt like a four-point harness. The seat he was sitting on was minimally padded, and he could easily imagine that it was a bench-type seat. Finally, as the chopper began to move forward, he could tell that he was seated facing backwards. All of this pointed to a large, military-style helicopter.

A well-financed organization could afford an Army surplus helicopter, but it was hard to imagine they could afford to draw attention to themselves by using such a vehicle this close to the center of a major city. Maybe his run-in outside the naval base had raised some red flags. Maybe this was just a misunderstanding between government organizations. _Of course, the last misunderstanding led me to being waterboarded in a Cairo basement..._ The feeling of desperation he had felt in that basement was still being held at arm's distance, but he could feel it lurking.

The ride only took a half hour, which encouraged Alex. The speed with which he was hustled off the chopper to cover provided further encouragement; presumably, he was being hidden from people who would potentially be willing to help him. He could feel a slow roll of the floor beneath him - he was on a ship. Images of the container ship he had taken to Australia flashed in his mind. If the water were still as choppy as it had been when he was at the Wharf, it had to be a large vessel indeed. Of course, it had to be large enough to land a helicopter, but he could barely feel the ocean swell beneath his feet. So, larger than Cray's yacht.

From the sound of the footfalls of the men half-carrying/half-dragging him, Alex guessed he was being maneuvered down a narrow passageway. After getting a nasty knock on the ankle by the raised sill of a doorway between compartments, he decided to "come around" a bit. As he pretended to attempt some shambling steps, the men responded as he had hoped. The treated him more like an injured comrade, and less like a side of beef.

He was brought into a room and he could feel the men let him topple forward. He barely stopped himself from extending his arms to break his fall. _This is going to hurt,_ he had time to think before he landed face first on a soft surface - presumably a bed. Not a feather bed, mind you, but compared to a face full of deck, it was a welcome surprise. The men threw his legs onto the bed before he could slide off.

"The hood?", one man asked.

A second voice replied, "Leave it until we hear otherwise." The voices didn't bounce off the walls in the hollow way he associated with cells. He could see it now. "_Comparative Analysis of Holding Room Acoustics: A Case Study"._ If he ever decided to go into academia, he was all set. So perhaps he was in a cabin? Then he remembered the sick bay of the _USS Kitty Hawk. _He thought to himself, _Maybe this was Homecoming Week and I missed my invitation to the reunion? _ With the thought, he recognized the sharp smell of antiseptic solution; sick bay was looking like a pretty good bet. He tried to remember where the sick bay was in the layout of the ship.

The two men left the room. He heard their voices recede into the distance down the corridor. Alex tried to decide whether he should end the charade. If he was correct, and this was the _Kitty Hawk_, then this was probably a case of one branch of the government not knowing what the other was up to. He could get them to make a few phone calls, get Joe Byrne involved, and he should be home in time for supper. _Maybe I should get up and have a look around?_ If he was discovered poking around, though, he would lose the advantage of being able to act sedated. He decided he would wait until he was sure that the tracking device was activated, in case they hadn't been able to track the helicopter flight.

After another twenty minutes, Alex had just about decided to get up when he heard footsteps in the corridor. The sound of the door being unlocked preceded the arrival of two men. "This is him? Kind of a runt, don't you think? To take on four sailors, I mean."

"They were drunk."

"Have we confirmed that this is the guy that was retrieved off Australia?"

"Contact at the time was deliberately restricted. Order came down from Washington. The sailor who recognized him was one of the few orderlies that were allowed in here. The only other person I'm sure could identify him was Dr. Cook."

"Can we get him in for an identification?" Alex felt a flood of relief. He was thinking of sitting up and saying "boo"...

"No, we're not sure of his loyalties. And it would raise too many questions if the good doctor went missing..." _Oh, fudge._ "But we shouldn't need him; we have his medical notes. The astronaut had a bullet wound in his chest, near his heart." Alex felt his shirt being raised. "There you go. How he passed the physical with that, I can't imagine." The other man grunted in agreement. "Get him in the chair."

The moved the boy to a chair and removed the hood. Alex let his head loll against the back of the chair and used the opportunity to look around at the room. It looked very similar to the sick bay that he had been in on the _Kitty Hawk_, but it was possible that a ship as large as an aircraft carrier would have more than one medical facility. He was slapped lightly on the cheek.

"'M up. 'M up," he mumbled, pretending to struggle to bring his head to upright position. He saw two men in front of him. One was perhaps in his forties, the other in his sixties. Though obviously of military bearing, their uniforms lacked any form of insignia. _Probably a bad sign that they are letting me see their faces, but the fact that they are remaining anonymous is a hopeful sign._ "Where'm I? Who're you?" He let his chin rest on his chest.

"Stay with us, son. What's your name?" The older man took charge of the conversation.

"My friends call me Alex." He paused. "Cuz that's my name."

"Alex Pleasure?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Alex Rider?"

Alex jerked his head up a little, as if in surprise. "Not... not supposed to..."

The younger man broke in. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen." A pause. "And a half."

There was a slight intake of breath by the younger man. "What were you doing in a space capsule in the middle of the ocean?"

"Let's stay on point," the older man chided. "We need to find out how much MI6 knows about our plans." He turned back to Alex. "Why did MI6 send you?"

_Send me where?_, the teen thought. "Didn't...didn't send me." Alex kept his eyes closed. He regretted not being able to see their reactions, but he wasn't sure that he could keep the confusion and dislocation in his gaze as he evaluated their questions.

"What is your connection to MI6?"

"Uncle...dead...killed." _I'm not trained for this,_ thought the teen, _I sound like a zombie. At least they seem to be buying it._

"Your uncle was killed by MI6?"

"No...ter...terrorists. Tried...get me." Alex gestured vaguely towards his chest. "States...hide."

The younger man grimaced. "This is totally FUBAR. We grabbed a kid from a witness protection program!"

"Relax. If he disappears, then the terrorists will get the blame." _Crap. _ "Some things still don't add up. Alex? Alex?"

"Hmm?"

"Alex, what were you doing in the space capsule? In the middle of the ocean?"

Alex thought furiously. _Keep it bare bones, let them fill in the details._ "Hospital... made friends with Paul Drevin."

The older man supplied, "The capsule was one of Drevin Industries'. But the owner's name is not Paul, it was something Russian..."

"Son...his son" murmured Alex.

The older man snorted derisively. "Billionaires really are different than you and me. I gave my son's friends popsicles. He sends his son's friends to a space station and gets this panty-waisted administration to divert a carrier group to perform pickup. I wonder how big a campaign contribution that was good for."

"Well, they better cash the check soon. Drevin Industries has been in free fall since the founder passed away and the accident on the space station." Alex let his head fall to his chest again. Snoring would probably be pushing it.

The senior officer had obviously heard enough. He got to his feet with a disgusted look on his face. "I can't believe I thought that this... boy... was a risk."

"What should we do with him, admiral?" The younger officer asked, as he looked grimly at Alex.

"Leave him here for now. We'll have him sedated until we decide what to do with him." He paused. "I'm thinking, if he has ties to MI6... Once we take control, we may need a peace offering to mollify the Brits. Though they should appreciate that we are standing with them against the Muslim threat, instead of turning our backs on them like this administration. We can transfer him to a black site in the meantime. With the proper protocols, we can keep him isolated. Any protestations of innocence will be discounted..."

The younger man nodded. "We'll need to transfer him to another room. The sick bay cannot be secured from the inside, but the brig would raise too many questions. Fortunately, we still have those temporary cells we rigged up to hold those Malaysian pirates. I've checked, and my access card still works. We would have taken him directly there, admiral, but there is no plausible reason for you to be seen in that part of the ship. I know you wanted to be personally involved in this interrogation."

The admiral sighed. "For all the good that did us."

"Sorry to have wasted your time. I'll take it from here." He saluted smartly; the admiral returned the salute distractedly.

"Okay, I'll inspect the bridge. I take it Capt. Grenwald is still at the memorial service?"

"It took us longer to run this kid to ground, but, yes, he shouldn't be back for an hour or two. That's why we scheduled it like we did." Alex was encouraged that it seemed like the cabal's support seemed so thin. Maybe if he could just get away from this group...

They called two sailors in from the corridor and had them hoist Alex from the chair. He supported his own weight a little to save his shoulders, but he didn't want them rushing to sedate him. He hung limply with his arms around their shoulders and their hands firmly gripping his wrists.

He was led/dragged down two levels and towards the bow. The sound of a cell phone ringtone sounded shocking in the quiet of the corridor. The officer fished the phone from his pocket. "XO here." The two sailors were perfectly quiet in the presence of the senior officer; Alex could hear the voice on the other end of the connection.

_"Sir, there is a Coast Guard cutter off the port bow. They are asking to speak to the Captain."_

"You explained that he is not on board?"

_"Of course, sir."_

"Um... did they ask to speak to the admiral?"

_"No, sir."_

"But the admiral's flag is flying, no?"

_"Yes, sir. Actually, they explicitly asked that we not bother the admiral."_

"I'll be up to speak with them." He snapped his phone shut. "You," he said sharply to one of the sailors, "go the admiral's launch and make sure he doesn't head to shore before speaking with me. Tell him that I'll be heading to the bridge. If I miss him there, I'll meet him at the launch." He took Alex's arm from the around the man's shoulders. "Quick, now!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

The hurried Alex down another hundred feet. "Take him." The officer shifted Alex's weight to the other man, as he as fished his card from his pocket and swiped the door access. "Now-", he started to say as he turned back. He was interrupted as the teen collapsed into his arms. "Dammit! Watch it! Get him situated here, then keep an eye on this corridor. The duty roster has you servicing the unit down the corridor. Try to look busy."

"Yes, sir."

Alex was unceremoniously dropped on a cot. He groaned and twisted in what he hoped was a convincing way. He heard the man leave the room and the door clanged shut. Alex waited a moment, then sat up to examine the access card that he had pick-pocketed from the officer. _I may regret tipping my hand,_ he thought, _but I'll be damned if I let anyone drug me and ship me off to a foreign land again._ He flashed back to the nightmarish trip to McCain's Kenyan camp and shivered.

He got up and moved to the door. He was in luck. He hadn't been sure that there would be an access pad on the inside of the cell, but there was. He still wasn't entirely sure whether it would be better to move quickly while the sailor in the corridor would presumably be distracted setting up his alibi for being in the corridor, or to wait for him to become a bit complacent. In the end, the presence of the Coast Guard cutter made up his mind. He would move now and try to signal the ship. Hopefully, it was part of McDeere's response team.

Prepared for disappointment, he swiped the card. His heart dropped to his stomach as there was no response.

* * *

The executive officer rushed into the bridge and found the admiral listening on his cell phone. He looked ready to chew nails. The XO stepped into the adjoining chart room and indicated the admiral should join him. "A moment, gentlemen." The other crew members quickly responded by clearing the room. The officer closed the door behind the admiral. He started to speak. "We've-" He was cut off abruptly.

"That was my contact at Naval Intelligence. That... that... _person_... below is an MI6 operative. Apparently, a veteran operative, an accomplished one. He just found out." The older man was barely holding his anger in check. "We need to cut our losses. Get down there-"

"Sir, there is a Coast Guard vessel alongside. They are asking to speak with the Captain. You were not to be... 'bothered'. Do you think...?"

"I don't believe in coincidences. You need to get rid of that agent before the Captain returns. Now!"

* * *

Alex looked down at the card and remembered to breathe as he realized that he had not swiped the magnetic edge. He flipped the card in his hand and tried again. He was greeted with a loud click as the door was released. He pulled the door open and staggered out, in case he had to continue to feign being drugged. There was no one in the immediate vicinity of the door.

"Hey!" a voice called out from down the corridor. The sailor from before dropped some tools to the deck with a clatter. The man began to move towards Alex. At that moment, the sound of running footsteps stopped both of them. Two sets of footsteps, actually, descending a staircase rapidly. A flash of pant legs, then the officer and another sailor were rounding the bottom of the staircase. "STOP HIM! HOSTILE INTRUDER!"

Alex's attention flashed back to the sailor closest to him. The implicit message was apparently obvious to the man, as his facial expression settled into a stony stillness. To Alex's confusion, the man took two steps backwards. He then stopped down to the toolbox on the floor where he had been "working". _That's my cue to leave,_ thought Alex. He turned and fled.

As he reached the first staircase, he bolted up the stairs, three at a time. A shot rang out. He saw the spark of the ricochet, but did not slow down. He had ascended two flights before he heard footsteps below. He thought a heartbeat about slipping off to hide in one of the many rooms along the corridor, but he quickly decided that he had to get to the flight deck before the cutter returned to station.

He went up to more flights, and was heading up another, when he noticed a flash of blue sky through the window inset in one door. He flung himself at the door. He burst through to find himself on the flight deck. With a bolt of panic, he realized he couldn't tell the bow from the stern. The deck mostly a featureless expanse punctuated with a few fueling He took one calming breath, then his head snapped around. _The catapults!_ He tried to remember the war movies he had watched with Tom. The aircraft would be launched toward the bow with the ship under steam.

_OK, OK, I'm close to the bow._ But he was on the starboard side. He raced around the tower structure, startling three soldiers servicing a tow vehicle. He froze them in position by pointing behind him and shouting "They're trying to kill me!" _Keep it simple._

He got to the edge of the deck and looked down. The water looked to be about 60 feet down. _The falls in Australia were taller, right?_ Of course, then he was plunging into a froth of air and water. This was going to hurt. "THERE HE IS!" _But I've got incentive._

He leaped off the deck. He knew that attempting a swan dive would be foolhardy at this height. It would take professional training to avoid breaking his neck. But he did remember one key bit of advice from tombstoning with Ian on the Amalfi Coast: clench your buttocks. A column of water can do serious damage to your innards.

The next thing he was aware of was trying to claw his way to the surface. His body felt like he'd been hit everywhere with a sledge hammer. A few minutes later and the guardsmen had pulled him onto the cutter. With a blanket around his shoulders, and a cup of coffee in his hands, he looked up into McDeere's serious face.

Alex asked incredulously, "Pull up alongside, and ask nicely? _That_ was your extraction plan?"

"Hey, it worked."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. This chapter did not want to let itself be written. Alex is supposed to be in danger, but the writing lacks urgency, I think. Anyway, thanks for the reviews and the follows.**


	9. Breaking Storm

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Breaking Storm**

Alex eased the front door open, but when he heard the TV on in the living room, he realized he was not going to be slipping off straight to bed as he had hoped. He entered the room and said "Hi, there."

Sabina was slightly startled. "Alex!" she exclaimed softly. She rose from the couch and went to give him a hug. "I was getting worried. For future reference, a text saying 'Don't wait up' is guaranteed to have me wait up. What happened?"

"Well, I ran into a spot of bother."

"Stop," interrupted the girl. "Now, Winnie-the-Pooh runs into a 'spot of bother'. You, you run into international criminal conspiracies."

He had the good manners to look chagrined. "See, it was hardly international..."

She looked at him intently, and said slowly, "I meant it as a joke."

Alex craned his neck to peer into the kitchen. "Are your parents awake?"

"They went to bed hours ago. I told them we had a fight and that I was waiting up to apologize."

The boy nodded appreciatively. "I forgive you."

"Don't push it, mister." She said, looking mock severe.

Alex didn't look abashed. "Should we at least engage in some make-up snogging to keep up the cover story?"

Sabina gave him a quick peck on the tip of his nose. "There you go." She leaned back to look him fully in the face. "So, give. What happened?"

"You know those sailors we run into the night of the concert?"

Sabina gave a fairly un-ladylike snort. "How could I forget?"

"When the Navy ran my name, they got a hit that made them suspicious. They thought I was spying on them. They brought me in for questioning. I had to call McDeere - you know, that government agent I told you about? - to get everything sorted out." _There, all perfectly true... just skipping over the parts about the kidnapping, attempted military coup, gun play, and jumping off an aircraft carrier._

He also didn't mention that fortunately, when McDeere had called in Alex's destination as the _Kitty Hawk_ that it had raised a red flag. The captain of the aircraft carrier had been cooperating with the FBI in an investigation of his commanding officer. The captain had been probed about his political leanings in ways that had set his antennae quivering. Before today, all they had were a bunch of culture warriors pontificating about how things would be different if they ran the circus. They had not been detected committing any criminal acts. The FBI hadn't even been in a position to block promotions for fear of pushing the plot further underground without being able to root out the conspirators.

The FBI and CIA hadn't realized that the captain wasn't on board the carrier. The security officer had already been cleared by the investigation. And the captain had not known of his executive officer's involvement. McDeere really had thought he was just there to collect Alex - with the support of the carrier's command structure. He apologized for putting Alex at risk.

"I thought you were delayed because of the news." Sabina's comment pulled Alex out of his thoughts.

"The news?" Alex swallowed a bit nervously. McDeere has assured him that the day's events would be completely confidential. "What news?"

"Those computers... the ones with the viruses... the Stormbreakers."

"Bloody hell. What now?"

Sabina went back to the couch and started flipping through the channels, apparently looking for a news program. "At first, they announced that the computers were recalled because they were infected with a virus that could have devestated Great Britain. I _think_ the networks knew that they were talking about a biologicial agent, but as I went from report to report, I swear they were afraid of appearing foolish at confusing a computer virus with a human virus. It wasn't until BBC started projecting potential mortality rates that the floodgates opened."

Alex was watching the channels flicker past on the television. "Wait! Stop, go back. One more." He had seen an incongruous site of men in hazmat suits at a school. They listened as the newscasters described the discovery of an unopened Stormbreaker computer in the storage closet of a London school.

"Well," he said, as he collapsed onto the couch, "no one is going to mistake that image for the response to a computer virus." With a sigh, he added, "Has there been anything about the Science Museum?"

She shook her head. "No, not so far." Alex breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Then he shook his head and drew himself up. "This is no coincidence. Just as the Point Blanc speculation was dying down. I've got to call Frank." He pulled out his phone and began dialing.

Sabina could hear Alex's side of the conversation. "Hi, Frank, its- No, I'm fine. I got home fine. It's just... have you had a chance to see the news?... No, the Stormbreaker computers... Yeah... Yeah... I don't think I'm allowed to say... Yeah, still... Could you contact Joe Byrne? I don't have any contact information for MI6... Yes, really... I don't know, just, er, is there anything I should know?... Yes, thanks, I really appreciate it. Bye."

Alex looked at the phone for a moment, then looked up at Sabina. "Hopefully, we'll know more in the morning. We should head up." Then he got a speculative look on his face. "Unless you want...?" he asked, pointing to his lips.

Sabina moved into his embrace, and said, "I'll take one more to help me sleep." She gave him a real kiss this time. "Good night." She went upstairs.

"Doesn't help _me_ sleep," muttered the boy.

* * *

"_Hold your fire! He's one of ours!"_

He remembered this shout distinctly, but it just didn't make sense. Nigel was certain that he had heard the shout correctly. And how could you explain the fact that the PM's security detail hadn't turned the terrorist into so much confetti within seconds of him crashing through the museum's glass roof?

It all happened so fast, he just couldn't be sure. But the official story just hadn't added up. The assassin had begun firing immediately. It felt like he had emptied the clip at the prime minister and Herod Sayle between one heartbeat and the next. It was a bloody miracle that only one shot hit the PM. Nigel had figured that the terrorist must not have accounted for the swinging of the rope harness. Unfortunately, two of the wild shots had hit Sayle.

But still… It. Just. Didn't. Make. Sense. Nigel was no soldier, but it seemed like it would take huge self-restraint to keep from firing at the attacker just because he had thrown down his weapon and raised his hands. Unless you received a stand-down order.

"_He's one of ours!"_

If only the event had been videotaped, he would have been able to scratch this itch once and for all. But this was just one more ribbon-cutting ceremony amongst an unending cavalcade of such ceremonies. The PM sometimes attended three in a single day. True, this particular ceremony marked a massive charitable donation. But the cynics in the Ministry of Education were certain that the geniuses at Sayle Industries had figured out that if they could hook the students on the technology in their impressionable salad days, then they would be more comfortable cutting huge checks for the technology when they were captains of industry. The prime minister himself hadn't been particularly warm to the event; some personal baggage with Sayle, the scuttlebutt said.

There had only been two pool photographers at the event. During the actual attack, they had been diving away from the falling glass. But after the initial onslaught, they had been able to snap a number of pictures of the attacker before being herded out of the building while a security sweep was performed. And their equipment was confiscated as evidence! As press liaison, Nigel had heard an earful about that! At least he had been able to return the cameras to them before their deadlines. They would have been screaming bloody murder about that otherwise, he could assure you. There were some very dramatic images of the attacker in silhouette against the skylight plastered across the broadsheets the next day. There was some grumbling that some images were missing and others had been tampered with, but photojournalists were always the most tempermental of the lot he had to deal with.

From his position seated with the ministry officials, Nigel had had a different vantage. True, Nigel was not a man of action, but he somehow had had the presence of mind to snap off a picture of the assailant. Fortunately, he had the small point-and-shoot camera with him that he used to take the casual shots that he liked to add to the various pamphlets and press releases that his office put together constantly. The shock of it all had settled in later, and he had never thought to offer the camera as evidence. He had been asked to collect the journalists' equipment and that's what he did.

Herod Sayle had reacted even worse than Nigel, he had always supposed. Nigel had seen him rush by in fear, bleeding heavily. Well, it had looked more like anger than fear, but who knows what goes through one's head after being shot? But only if he hadn't panicked, and had his injuries seen to immediately instead of fleeing the building—maybe then he would still be alive.

"_One of ours!"_

He just couldn't make it make sense. Why had no one's head rolled after that egregious blunder? It so easily could have been the PM dead alongside Sayle. He looked down at the picture he had taken of the figure dangling from the ceiling of the science museum. His picture clearly showed the face of the attacker. The focus was a bit off, but it was clear that the image did not fit the description of the… _man_… that was released with the announcement that he had died of injuries sustained falling through the glass.

He studied the image closely. He had thought he understood why the whole thing had been hushed up. He could understand why the government hadn't want to admit that the terrorists were training children. But with the latest news about those dreadful computers... Surely, they couldn't have all been infected with a horrible disease without the founder and head of the company being aware?

Then maybe the violence at the ceremony actually _saved_ lives? But how did this..., this _child_ fit into the story? Wouldn't the child be a _hero_? And maybe… maybe the public deserved to know?

* * *

_Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt._ Alex's phone vibrating on the nightstand woke the teen up. He groped for the device. "Hmm? Yeah?"

_"Alex? Sorry for waking you up so early, but I wanted to be sure to catch you before you left for school."_

"Frank? Uh, thanks for getting back to me." Alex swung his legs off the bed and stood up. "Hold on a sec." He checked the hallway and closed the bedroom door again. "What do you have?"

The agent didn't waste any time. _"I take it you know the story about the Stormbreaker computers?"_

"I'm, uh, familiar with it. And you really need to get my file."

_"Well, the press are swarming all over it. I was told to tell you that MI6 has completely abandoned the theory that the revelations about Point Blanc came from the families involved. The latest leaks were placed with too many news organizations simultaneously. If it had just been the American and British media, we might have been able to manage it, but _Der Spiegel_ and _Le Monde_ received tips as well. We're losing containment."_

"'Losing containment'? Look, I don't speak spook. What do you mean?"

_"We are losing control of the narrative. Whether it is just a matter of too many people having bits and pieces of your story, or someone deliberately spreading information, we just don't know. So far, your name and picture have not been released. It's possible that the leak is deliberate, but that you are not the target-"_

"Not the target?! It's hard to feel that way from where I'm sitting." Alex returned to the bed and flopped down on his back.

_"Listen. It may be a coincidence that these two leaks are so close together in time. But for this latest blow-up... well, they haven't been talking about the, uh, events at the Science Museum, and they certainly haven't indicated that a minor was involved. It's possible that this is a threat aimed at the_ _government_."

"A threat? What kind of threat?"

_"Well, this could be an attempt to embarrass the government."_

"Now I'm an embarrassment?"

_"Hold on. Both the US and UK are signatories to the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. We are engaged in major diplomatic initiatives to limit the use of child soldiers. This could undermine those efforts."_

"They should have thought of that before they used me." The bitter sentiment came easily to his lips. But the thought of children in war-torn regions of the world being forced in military service made it harder to feel sorry for himself.

_"I shouldn't be telling you this... but I did some digging, and I have heard some rumors of someone trying to establish a team of underage covert operatives. Codename 'Little angels', or something like that... Perhaps this is focused at derailing that initiative. If so, maybe the threat is enough to make them reconsider."_

"I see. Thank you for getting back to me."

_"No problem. Take care."_

* * *

Alex approached the school with a feeling of dread; he felt like his whole life was hanging by a thread. He just wanted to stay home and hit "Refresh" on the news sites to see how the Stormbreaker story continued to develop. The events at the Science Museum had finally made it into the narrative, but so far only as a bizarre footnote. It still had not been made clear that the Stormbreaker machines had been deliberately implanted with a weaponized form of the virus. It was still being treated as a nearly catastrophic case of industrial contamination, barely averted. The closest anyone had come to linking the two was a tabloid that suggested Sayle had known of the recall and recognized the financial disaster it would precipitate, and staged the attack to go out as a martyr rather than a failure. Their only evidence was the death certificate that listed a gunshot wound to the head that did not match either of the reported injuries at the museum.

MI6 had chosen not to drag Sayle's reputation through the mud to avoid a national panic. But if Sayle came off as a victim, Alex was going to puke.

As the teen started up the stairs, he heard running footsteps behind him. When he could sense the runner right behind him, he ducked down. A body went flying over him, and landed in a heap. "Ow, wasn't expecting that," said Spike, as he picked himself up and tried to stretch his back. "Hey, I wanted to catch you before school. You really dodged a bullet."

Alex barely stopped his hand from going to his chest. _No, I didn't._ "What do you mean?"

"You know those Stormbreaker computers? Yeah? Well they were contaminated with all sorts of viruses. You and Sabina could have caught the plague!"

Alex decided to play it naive. "Don't be daft, mate. You can't catch a computer virus!"

"That's just it, bud! These were contaminated with real live viruses. I've heard of genetic algorithms, but that's ridiculous. They're saying some people could have even died! Did you and Sabina have one at your school?"

"Mine did. I don't know about Sabina's."

Spike nodded. "That's right, I forgot. You and Sabina met at Wimbledon. I'll have to ask her."

"No, you might freak her out. I'll ask for you." The last thing Alex wanted was for Sabina to mention that the two of them had been discussing the story last night. _Stupid. I should know better than to lie about something on which I can be so easily caught out._

* * *

It wasn't until that evening that the news finally broke that the viruses had been a deliberate attack on the British nation's youth. This was quickly followed by an exclusive interview with a minor official in the administration of the previous prime minister. This ex-official suggested that the gunman had been a government agent. He even had some low-quality photographs that seemed to show that the gunman was a minor. The interviewer had seen the photographs but they were confiscated before airtime "in the interests of national security." The agents from MI6 that has confiscated the photos had even tried to invoke the Official Secrets Act, which the reporter and editors who had seen the picture refused to sign.

The reporter gravely noted when questioned by the anchor that the image in the picture had matched the description of Alex Friend. Invoking national security to protect the identity of the shooter only served to fan the flames.

* * *

The next few days rubbed Alex's nerves raw. The press was feasting on rumor and supposition. While the government refused to comment on the identity of the Science Museum gunman, it had become the accepted narrative that it was none other than "Alex Friend". Several papers cited "unnamed sources within the government" to confirm this information, but according to Byrne, MI5 could find no evidence of a leak.

A personal aide to the former Prime Minister had directed all inquiries to 10 Downing St. but, in a very awkward written statement, he had taken pains to point out that his boss had never characterized the events at the Science Museum as an "assassination attempt". The media had taken this as final confirmation that the shots were directed at the computer and not the people. Reporters had spent a news cycle speculating as to why, if the government knew of the threat, it was disrupted in such dramatic fashion. It was not until the parachutist was connected to a crash of a plane registered to Sayles Industries that an explanation began to take shape.

As the story evolved, the media realized that the Stormbreaker scandal predated the events at Point Blanc Academy. Therefore, "Alex Friend" was an alias that didn't exist at the time of the violence at the Science Museum. They started coming up with their own names to use in headlines. "Little Jimmy Bond" had set Alex's teeth on edge, but at least that was better than "Double-OMG" - that one made him physically nauseous. When a consensus finally formed around "the Teenagent" he calmed down a bit. Well, to the extent that he could hear that one without having to leave the room. It almost made him look back fondly at "Double-O-Nothing".

Once again, Alex had to listen to his schoolmates gush about things they knew nothing about. About how "cool" it would be parachute out of a plane with guns blazing, how "awesome" it would be to snowboard down a mountain under fire. They never used words like "terrifying" or "gut-wrenching". He wanted to shake them and yell at them that they didn't understand a thing. Instead, he had to smile and nod and hold his tongue.

Even Sabina seemed to expect that Alex's overriding emotion would be pride. He was getting the public appreciation, in abstentia, that he had been denied for so long. Fortunately, she didn't try to get him to express this sentiment; she might have found just how irritated he was.

* * *

Alex plopped his books down on his desk and took his seat.

"Class. Class." Mr. Simmons tried to get the social studies lesson started. "Let's get started; we've got a lot to get through. Today is the debate on the PATRIOT Act." Alex was relieved. He didn't have to make a presentation. He wouldn't have to pretend his world wasn't crashing down around his ears. "The rest of you-" there was a groan from the far corner, "- will have to decide which side you support and list two or three of the most compelling arguments from the debate. Get out your notebooks."

The debate went back and forth. The argument for the students' supporting passage of the Act basically boiled down to "if you're not doing anything wrong, you don't have anything to worry about; salute the flag and shut up". The argument against mostly focused on the expanded size of the bureaucracy necessary to support all the mandates in the Act. Both sides had Alex clenching his jaw so hard, it felt like his teeth were buzzing.

The final straw came when Burt McMillan said, "The intelligence services exaggerate the terrorist threat for budget purposes-"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Alex said sharply. The interruption threw the student off his talking points, as he scanned the room to find who had spoken. Alex continued, "There are people in the world who will commit mass murder without losing a wink of sleep. And not for an ideal, or honor, or even for revenge-"

"Alex," Mr. Simmons said in a shushing tone.

"- but for money, for power. Because they can. There are people putting their lives on the line every day, all around the world, so you can sit here securely, spouting nonsense."

The teacher said more forcefully, "Alex."

"You tell 'em, Alex!" Janie Plaut called, laughing.

"You're wrong, too." Alex turned his intense gaze on her. She swallowed and unconsciously took a step back. "Nietzsche said 'If you fight with monsters, you're going to become a monster yourself, and if you look long enough into the darkness, the darkness gets inside of you.' Being inside the government doesn't insulate men from going mad with power. They just work harder lying to themselves."

"You give them these powers, make them standard operating procedure, they'll use them. You've heard of the Spanish Inquisition? The most reviled example of institutionalized torture in history? Their rules said they couldn't do anything that would risk death or cause permanent harm. That's where the American definition of torture begins!"

"They say 'we don't torture.'" He snorted. "How do they know? Because they control the dictionaries!"

"Mr. Pleasure!"

"And don't get me started on waterboarding! 'Simulated drowning'? What's simulated about it? Like getting shot in the chest without getting killed is 'simulated murder'?"

"Mr. Pleasure! ENOUGH!" Mr. Simmons finally got through to Alex. He looked around at the collection of silent, gaping and gawping faces. His eyes darted to Mr. Simmons' who looked more concerned than angry. He didn't even remember having gotten to his feet. Alex flushed, then sprinted to the door and was gone.

Spike got to his feet to follow the boy, but the teacher stopped him. "Mr. Kidd! Sit down!" He slowly took his seat, his eyes never leaving the door.

* * *

The next period was lunch. Spike found Alex in the courtyard adjacent to the cafeteria. Alex didn't look up as the other boy approached him.

"So, you want to tell me what that was all about?"

Alex finally looked up. "Not really, no," he said with a sad little smile.

"Um, I was going to collect your stuff for you, but Mr. Simmons held onto it."

Alex sighed. "I should go apologize." He made his way back to the classroom, begging off Spike's company. This would be humiliating enough without an audience. He poked his head into the room and found the teacher eating at his desk.

"Sir?"

"Ah, Alex. Please come in."

The boy entered and stood before the teacher's desk. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm, uh... I'm sorry for disturbing your class."

"You're passionate about the subject, I gather."

"I didn't realize it before the class, but, yeah, apparently I am."

"Well, your passion carried the day. I was looking through the voting slips the class turned. Most people cited your arguments to support their position."

"I didn't realize I had a position. So, who won?"

Mr. Simmons laughed. "Actually, it was very nearly a tie."

"I'm sorry I muddied the waters. Who was supposed to win?"

"These are complex issues. I'd be disappointed if there were a clear winner. I'm just glad they realize that there is a real debate to be had. Apology accepted. Just try to wait your turn next time. Which reminds me..." He pulled an assignment sheet from beneath his desk blotter. "Next topic is free speech vs. hate speech, with the test case being the American Nazi Party march through Skokie, Illinois." He pulled back the sheet. "Is this another sensitive topic?" he asked with a smile.

"I'll be good. I promise," replied the boy.

* * *

"_Hello_"

"Tom?"

"_Al! How are you doing? It's great to hear from you, mate. Wait, what time is it?_"

"Sorry, man, I just had to make sure I caught you before you headed to Brookland. Listen, there's a chance things might get a bit crazy at school some time in the next few days. You've been following the reports about Point Blanc and the Stormbreakers?"

_"Sure, who hasn't? I've been biting my tongue so much, it's a bloody wonder I can still talk."_

"Well, I think it's about to get worse. I've been told we're 'losing containment'."

"_Losing containment?_"

"Yeah, apparently they use the same terminology to talk about my life that they use to discuss nuclear waste. Details about my involvement with… the Bank… are starting to leak out."

"_Do they know where the leaks are coming from?_"

"No. But this slow drip, drip, drip is just torture. Somehow I always feared that if the truth came out it would be an explosion of violence at an all-school assembly. This waiting for the other shoe to drop is killing me."

"_Maybe it's for the best, mate. You'll be free of the spy life for good._"

"But I'd be giving up my last hope for a normal life. With my story splashed all over the papers, Scorpia or the Grief-lets could track me to the States easily. I couldn't expose the Pleasures to that kind of danger. And I'm not sure what kind of effort MI6 would put into protecting me once I'm useless to them. Maybe with the new Head in charge… but the old Head would have cut me loose without even a gold watch."

"_After all you've done for them?_"

"The past is history. Gratitude doesn't seem to be high on their priorities."

"_That's cold._"

"…And besides the point. I called to give you a head's up in case the sh- storm hits. As my only friend—"

"_Not your only_—"

"Only. Friend. At Brookland, anyway. As the only one who stood up for me, and the guy who took a bullet because of me, you're likely to be in for a lot of media attention."

"_So you want to make sure I look good?_"

"Ha. Not enough makeup in the world, mate. It's just… I think it's best if you don't stand out from the crowd. You know, act just as surprised that I wasn't into drugs or gangs or whatever the current crop of rumors is suggesting. And it's not just the black hats I'm worried about. I don't want MI6 thinking you know more than's good for you. Just act innocent."

"_Act? Butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. I'm completely without sin._"

"Not completely. Don't forget your original sin."

_"Original sin? Now they're grading on originality, as well as execution? I've got to study more._"

"Don't forget to show your work, for full marks." Alex paused, turning serious again, "Just… just don't try to stand up for me. If people wonder why you stood by me, maybe you should say you were just trying to be supportive… that you thought I was being abused…"

"_Bugger that! I loved Jack almost as much as you did._"

"She can't be hurt anymore. You can. Do this for me, please. I couldn't bear to see you get hurt. Not again."

"_I don't know. It's physically painful to hear those bleeding idiots spout off on things they know nothing about. It'll be worse when they've got a pinch of the truth mixed in._"

"I understand—it's tiring trying to remember what you should or shouldn't know. Just keep an eye on James—"

"_Hale?_"

"Yeah. He'll probably be a bit hurt at the lies, disbelieving that I could be caught in this mess, supportive, torn…. You could do worse than model your response on his… Just try to stay in the background as much as the Fleet Street vultures will let you. This will actually be harder than just pretending ignorance."

* * *

_What am I doing here? "You should really get out Alex." Yeah, like that worked out so well last time._

Sabina had convinced Alex to go out and grab some pizza with Emily and Anne. Spike and Sam ended up tagging along. To make matters worse, there was a soccer game playing on the television over the counter - and Alex couldn't see the screen from where they were sitting.

He was finally able to tune it out, and by the end of the meal he had to admit to himself that it was good to get out of the house. The cleared their table and made their way to the door.

_"We interrupt this program with breaking news on the identity of the mysterious teenager at the center of the Stormbreaker and Point Blanc affairs."_

Alex stopped short. Sabina, who had been listening to Emily and Anne bumped into him. "Wha-".

"Ssh. Listen." The others continued walking towards the door.

"_The BBC and CNN are reporting this hour that the so-called 'Teenagent' has been identified as British schoolboy-" _Alex realized he was holding his breath. _"- Felix Lester, aged 15."_ He released his breath in an explosive guffaw. He was bordering on hysterical laughter, but he had enough self-control to hustle the group out the door before they could connect his behavior to the news report.

But not quickly enough to prevent Spike from glancing up at the television with a puzzle expression.

* * *

Cecil gave his wrist a last few quick rotations before knocking on the door.

"Enter."

He went in and waited for his boss to look up. He held his wrist with his other hand as a reminder to keep it still. Still without looking up, his boss said, "I take it from your hesitancy that the latest leaks still have not produced a location for the Rider boy."

"No, sir. Sir, I know that we had agreed that if it got to this point we would simply reveal the boy's identity."

"Yes, yes, I know. Get on with it."

"I've become more and more convinced that Rider is not in the United Kingdom. If he goes to ground overseas, it will make the rest of our plan more difficult to execute."

His boss was unmoved. "We would still achieve our primary objective. Scorpia would be neutralized."

"True. But we have one more wild card to play. I have just learned that Rider was a ball boy at Wimbledon."

He considered. "I see. It would be difficult for '6 to control all the video and photographic evidence from such a venue. How do we get the press interested?"

"Simple. The boy broke up a gambling ring whilst he was there."

"Hmm, do you think they will buy it?"

"I don't see why not. It's true."

"No, really? That's just too funny. The boy's a regular Johnny Rotten Appleseed. Proceed, proceed."

* * *

**A/N: ****Thanks once more to everyone who has taken the time to read, follow and/or review my story.**

**Nietzsche actually said "Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." But Alex is a man of action, not letters; I wouldn't expect him to get it exactly right.****  
**


	10. Antisocial Media

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Antisocial Media**

"Can we stop for a second?" Alex asked.

"Don't tell me you're tired already?" Sabina shot back. "Usually, you can run me into the ground."

"We need to talk," he replied in serious tone.

"Um, that's never a good start," she tried to sound flippant, but she was shaken by the ominous start to the conversation.

"It's about the... Stormbreakers... and stuff."

"Oh... okay." Sabina sounded faintly relieved. The idea that she was not taking this seriously enough briefly irritated Alex, but he had to admit to himself that it would be hard for anyone else to be obsessing over events as much as he was.

Alex had picked this spot strategically. There was a park bench set off from the running trail with a good view in both directions. They could talk privately. He waved her over to sit down.

"I'll just cut to the chase. I... I think I need to tell your parents everything."

Sabina looked skeptical. "Everything? Of course, if you think so... But won't you get in trouble? You know, because of the Official Secrets thingy?"

Alex held back a smile. "Yeah, the... thingy... well, a lot of stuff's already out in the open. For that, I'll probably just be confirming what you father already suspects. His self-restraint has been phenomenal, but I doubt he believes there are a ton of underage operatives running around. But I have a feeling that we haven't heard the end of it. Did I ever tell you about Harry Bulman?"

"Bulman? I don't think so. Who is he?"

"He was a journalist."

"Was?"

"I was told he died." He pursed his lips for a moment, then pressed on. "But he was a lone journalist, a freelancer like your father who caught a whiff of my story. He pulled it all together, then set up a sting to get me to admit knowing things I had no business knowing. I fell for it, hard. He had me dead to rights."

Sabrina's brows furrowed. "What happened? How come the public never heard of this?"

Alex snorted. "What happened? MI6 happened. I asked for their help and... somehow they got to him and shut him down. But apparently he couldn't just walk away, because he got himself killed over it." Alex fell into silence as he stared at the grass in front of him. He shook himself slightly. "But that's not the point. One guy started sniffing around, and was able to dig up the story. MI6 presumably sanitized whatever sources this bloke used... but I've had contact with too many people. And now there is a lot more than one lone reporter sniffing around."

Tenatively, she said, "So, the stuff about the Stormbreakers and Point Blanc is already out there... and they know about Cray already... you're going to tell them about that Russian general, and the space station? And what you and Jack were doing in Cairo?"

At the mention of Jack's name, the sense of loss swelled to fill up Alex's entire chest. He bit it back ruthlessly. "There's more."

"More?!"

"Yeah, there was a plot to kill London schoolkids with poisoned vaccine shots. And an attempt to trigger a massive tsunami with a bomb. And then there's Desmond McCain."

Sabina's mouth hung open. She shut it with a snap. "McCain? The one who threw the New Year's party?"

"Turns out our plunge into the lake was no accident. He was trying to kill your father."

Sabina visibly paled. "Dad? Wha-? Why?"

"He thought your father was investigating him. It seems he was manufacturing his own humanitarian crises to take the guesswork out of emergency planning. Apparently, it keeps down costs. He was going to start a pandemic in Africa. Lovely chap. He ended up turning his attention to me. If you had been in England, you might have recognized my description in the missing person alert. Wound up in Kenya."

"Oh, Al!"

"Fortunately, the Indian intelligence service was... er... investigating him, and they got me out." He continued, "Anyway, once they have the full picture, I think your parents will see how dangerous it is to have me around." He sighed. "I wouldn't blame them."

"They way I see it," she said, shaking her head, "it's just as dangerous being an investigative reporter. You don't see us kicking Dad out of the house."

Alex didn't agree, but he didn't think he'd convince her. "I just wanted to give you a head's up." With a small shrug, he got up and indicated they should finish their run.

* * *

Alex awoke with a slight gasp. It hadn't been the worst of his nightmares – it was just the one where he went from room to room in his old house in Chelsea. Each room was empty, but he could always hear Jack's voice in the next room over. This particular dream didn't dredge up the worst of his grief, but it did leave him feeling physically drained. He got up and padded silently to the bathroom to get the water bottle he had left there. He heard voices from downstairs.

"Kids asleep?" Edward said.

"Yes. I just checked in a little while ago. Alex was sleeping quietly." _What, do I snore?_ thought Alex.

"Maybe the nightmares are loosening their hold." _Oh._ Alex heard the sound of ice hitting the bottom of followed by a gurgle of a bottle being poured. _That's new_, Alex thought, _I've only seen Edward drink when he's entertaining._

"Hey, honey, is something wrong?" Liz asked. Alex felt like he was intruding, but he made no move to continue back to his room.

"Strange day. I was down at the magazine. They've been fact-checking my article. Today, it was mostly stuff that's in the public record. They didn't really need me or my notes, so I had a lot of time on my hands."

"Bored, dear? That's not usually a problem for you."

Edward shook his head. "No, that's not it. Remember Niels Toomre?"

"You worked with him in Iraq, right? On the procurement scandal?"

"That's the fellow. I got him a position with the magazine." Edward gave a wry chuckle. "OK, being in the running for a Pulitzer got him the position, but I got him the introduction. Anyway, he was in the office. So, we engaged in a little shop talk. It so happens that he's working on article about those dreadful Stormbreaker machines. He thinks there's more to the story. He's already dismissed Felix Lester as a non-entity. He thinks he has a lead on the identity of Alex Friend."

"Oh... oh," Liz responded weakly.

"Exactly. Perhaps it's my paranoia speaking, but he asked me a lot more questions about the whole Cray affair than I was strictly comfortable with. I had to invoke the OSA more than once. It could be mere professional interest; in our business, we're always looking for that story that has enough legs to be released in book form. But it felt like an interrogation." Alex could hear the ice rattling around in the glass as Edward took another sip.

"Surely, dear, you don't think he suspects anything?"

"Perhaps I can answer that." Both the Pleasures were startled by the voice from the doorway.

"Oh, sweetie, did we wake you?" said Liz, while Edward asked "What do you mean you 'can answer that'?" with a furrowed brow. Alex's mouth twitched into a half smile at their different reactions.

"I think my... situation is being leaked. Deliberately."

Edward sat back in the armchair. "I didn't want to pressure you, but... Alex Friend, that was you?"

"Yes, sir, that's me."

"And, er," the man swallowed nervously, then visibly tried to look hopeful, "you know this Felix Lester?"

"No, sir, not well." Before the man could look too relieved, he added, "Just well enough to borrow his name for a few days."

"Bloody hell," Edward said in a resigned manner.

"Language, dear," Liz added automatically.

"You think they've gotten wind that you and Sabina were on Air Force One with Cray?"

"No, sir, but MI6 seems to feel the leaks are too systematic. It may just be a matter of time. Sir, ma'am, before I say my piece, I just want you to know I never meant to cause you any trouble."

"Alex! You're part of our family now! You're not trouble."

"Please, hear me out. You see, Cray wasn't the first maniac who was trying to leave his twisted mark on the world that I had to face down. And he wasn't the last. What I'm about to tell you violates the Official Secrets Act… and probably the Patriot Act, too. And if there a Russian or Australian analogue… oh, and maybe Indian… But I have a feeling this is all going to blow up in my face in the next few days anyway, so that's probably moot." He rubbed his face with both hands. "Where to start?"

"How about at the beginning?" Edward interjected, with an attempt at a smile, but might have been gas.

"How cliché. OK. I'll try to be brief; after all, I do have school tomorrow, right? Right."

"Ian Rider, my uncle, was never a banker. He was an operative for MI6, a spy. And the car accident that killed him? Yeah, well, the accident was that the car wasn't bullet proof." The attempt at humor didn't protect him from the wave of sorrow and loss that swept across him, even a year and a half later. "MI6, um, _offered_ me the opportunity to avenge my uncle by completing his mission and finding out what was so important as to get him killed."

"An untrained civilian? A child? Madness!"

"As for my age, MI6 thought it the perfect cover. Who could suspect this face?" he said, batting his eyes melodramatically. Funny thing was, for a moment, the ever-present grief in Alex's eyes was replaced with a look of pure innocence. It was a bit unnerving to Edward, but the moment quickly passed.

"And training? Well, it turns out that Ian had been training me for years. You do know I'm a black belt, right? And fluent in several languages? And he thought it would be 'fun' if I knew how to pick pockets. Ian wasn't home a lot, but when he was, every excursion was an adventure. The head of MI6 claimed—"

"Wait one moment! You've met the head of MI6?"

"Well, no. I meant the head of Special Operations. I believe you spoke with Mrs. Jones? She spoke with you to arrange my coming to stay with you. I met with her and her predecessor— Alan Blunt. Multiple times. To my ever-lasting regret. But back to the story… you've been following the Stormbreaker story? Of course you have."

"Surely. But I don't understand. Why shoot the Prime Minister? And how are you not in jail?"

"I, um, was aiming for the computer. The Prime Minister was actually very gracious later about the bullet in his wrist. The computer was the release mechanism for the virus. Simultaneous release throughout the country. Sayle was quite mad. He had an insane hatred of the PM, who had bullied him as a schoolboy. Apparently, he considered killing thousands of schoolchildren a proportionate response. And having the PM personally release the plague was Sayle's idea of poetic justice."

"And you... killed him?"

"No. Sure, I shot him, yes— but the wounds were not life-threatening. No, his associates decided he was a liability and had him executed."

"God. So, Sayle and that hostage situation at Point Blanc? And on top of that you get dragged into that Cray situation because of me."

"Oh, we're just getting started." He put his elbows on his knees and hung his head as he inventoried his nightmares. Point Blanc. Vivesection. Julius Grief. The destruction of the science block. Skeleton Key. Shark. Nuclear countdown. Conrad. Sarov's suicide.

At some point, it occurred to Edward that he should be recording this, or at least writing it down. But this didn't feel like reporting, so much as listening to horror stories around a camp fire. And he just couldn't stop listening. But he was numb enough not to notice the lack of continuity between the disaster on Air Force One and the thwarting of Invisible Sword. Alex wasn't ready to go there.

During the litany, Liz had moved to sit on the couch and rub Alex's back in slow circles. She covered her mouth in horror when he revealed that he had been shot in the chest in retaliation for stopping Invisible Sword. Or for Julia Rothman's death. Or just for being generally unpopular. He realized he could give them one piece of concrete evidence, and pulled down his T-shirt to reveal the bullet wound over his heart. Edward didn't even try to examine the wound, just continuing to shake his head in negation – as he had for the last half hour. Liz gave him a long hug.

The revelations about Desmond McCain felt like a punch in the stomach to Edward. To realize that plunge into the icy loch was a deliberate attack! They tried to kill his daughter! Again!

Alex did not even realize he was crying when he finally got to Jack's final moments. He didn't know how long he had been crying, but his best estimate was about a thousand years. He looked up and saw that Liz was crying too. Edward just looked angry.

"Those bastards!" he hissed. Alex didn't know who Edward was talking about, but since it pretty much described everyone he had mentioned, it probably didn't much matter.

* * *

Alex had begun to hope that there would be no immediate follow-up to the Stormbreaker revelations when he was rocked again by lunchroom gossip.

"Sabina, you were a ball girl at Wimbledon, right?" Emily interrupted the conversation, placing her tray in the empty spot next to Sabina. OK, there hadn't been an empty spot there before she arrived, but she squeezed in anyway. "That was the summer before you came to the US?"

"Um… yeah." She glanced over at Alex. "Why do you ask?"

"You might have met the kid who saved the hostages at Point Blanc! The kid on the ironing board."

"Wait, what?"

"He busted up a gambling ring at Wimbledon! He was posing as a ball boy! You might have talked to him." Emily leaned forward to look past Sabina at Alex. "Hey, Alex, didn't you – "

Alex quickly interrupted. "I thought they established that the guy on the ironing board was that Lester bloke?" He looked up to see Spike standing across the table looking at him intently. Alex turned his gaze back to Emily. "How do they know it was the same guy?" He thought for a moment. "And why would a gambling ring be operating from a tennis tournament?"

Emily looked a little put out by being put to the inquisition. "I don't know. Reports are kind of sketchy. There was something about supplying drugs to the athletes or the coaches or something. Maybe performance enhancing stuff? Steriods? I didn't read the article very carefully. I just thought it was pretty cool that Sabina and you –"

Alex interrupted again. "What about it, Sab? Did you see any creepy ball boys who looked like undercover police?"

"Um, I don't know… maybe?" Alex gave a little shake of his head that he hoped no one else would notice. "Um, I mean… no, I don't think so. Everyone seemed pretty normal, don't you think?" Alex's eyes widened in warning. "Um, I mean… I think."

"Too bad. You missed your chance to meet this amazing Ironing Man." Everyone laughed.

Sam piped up with "Spider-Man is 'amazing'. It should be the Invincible Ironing Man." Everyone just stared at him. "Ow! What? It should," he said, rubbing the back of his head. Alex welcomed the distraction. Just then the bell for the end of lunch period rang. He looked over and Spike was still watching him, considering.

Alex headed to the boy's lav, digging his cell phone out of his pocket. He checked the stalls, then dialed McDeere. Frank answered on the second ring. "This is Alex. Talk to me."

"You've heard about Wimbledon?"

"Yes, I've bloody well heard! What's going on? Do they have my name, my picture? You could've given me a head's up!"

"I just heard myself," the agent replied calmly. "As far as I can tell, they don't have a name – though how they can know the connection without the name is a bit of a mystery."

"Whoever's leaking it know the connection! Focus! I don't have much time, I'm going to be late to class. Do I need to bail?"

"No, no name. And no picture. But surely you were on television."

"I didn't serve at Centre Court, none of my matches were televised. But most matches are taped; every player is a favorite son somewhere. Dammit!" Alex kicked the door to one of the toilet stalls. "Was the triad mentioned? Big Circle? They'll probably feel honour-bound to come after me again if their name is dragged into it… I have to go. Keep me informed."

Alex hung up, and strode quickly to the door and wrenched it open. Spike was standing outside the door, startled. Fury built up in Alex like a firestorm. "Are you stalking me?"

"No! I mean… well… I had to ask… are you…. Look, the entire tennis team knows Sabina was a ball girl at Wimbledon. They're going to be all over her about this. And Emily mentioned to me that was where you and Sabina met… you were a ball boy, too, right?"

Alex dragged his hand down his face, trying to collect himself. "I don't have time to discuss this right now. Just… look, just don't say anything to anyone until we've had a chance to talk. I'll… I'll talk to you after soccer practice. This is very important. Just promise me, OK?"

"OK, sure." Spike looked altogether too pleased with himself for Alex's comfort. But he thought he could trust Spike to hold his tongue, at least for the rest of the day.

Alex wanted to find Sabina and make sure she understood the stakes. But he didn't have her schedule memorized, and racing around the school looking for her was just going to attract unwanted attention. Instead, he tried to rein his emotions in and continue on to class. Unfortunately, he had both Biology and Social Studies with Spike.

Alex could feel him staring at him through both classes. On the plus side, Spike was not talking with anyone. Maybe he was keeping his suspicions under his hat, though to Alex it felt like they were written over the boy's face in neon lights. Luckily, there was no lab experiment in Biology. Spike was usually Alex's lab partner; Alex was pretty sure Spike would not have been able to restrain himself if they were at the relative privacy of a lab bench. And Alex had not yet decided what he was going to tell his friend.

He'd love to have someone in whom to confide. But he'd only known the boy for a couple of months and during much of that time, Spike had been oh-so-subtly asking about Sabina, or what Alex thought about Sabina, or what Sabina thought about Alex or – timidly – what Sabina thought about Spike. He was not sure if Spike would be hanging around someone as close-lipped as himself, if not for Sabina.

Alex missed being able to lean on Tom. Sure, he'd kept most of the details from Tom, but he'd allowed himself to make references to some of the darker things he'd seen without his best mate trying to dredge up his "feelings". After the debacle during the Eagle Strike affair, Alex had been quite reluctant to give Sabina more than the barest outlines of his trials. Whether it was to protect her, or because he was still stinging from her rejection when he tried to convince her that her father had been targeted for assassination, he couldn't have said.

On the other hand, when Alex had told Tom, he _had_ immediately turned around and told his brother. Jerry had been cool with it, or maybe he was just used to ignoring Tom's ravings, but it could have ended badly.

If Alex let Spike in on the secret and he then turned around and told his sister Emily, that might very well define "worst-case scenario". With a sinking feeling, Alex realized it was probably already too late. He couldn't think of any way to keep Spike quiet. Alex felt sure that Emily wouldn't have been so easily put off if she could have imagined that Alex was the agent. Maybe he should be offended, but Alex's best hope might be that no one could see him in the role.

Alex became more agitated as the afternoon wore on. Every time he saw two or more people talking, he could imagine they were talking about the latest revelation. _It was that bloody ironing board_, he thought. _If I had just slid down the mountain on my arse, it never would have captured the public's imagination. Of course, I'd probably be dead._

* * *

Alex was not looking forward to the end of practice; he would have drawn it out if he could. But Coach must be related to the Sergeant at Brecon Beacons, because nothing could put him off his schedule. "OK, guys, bring it in. Good practice. Now go home and hit the books just as hard!" Dawdling in the field house wasn't going to work either. "Chop, chop! Gotta lock up! Keep it moving!"

Spike was waiting for Alex when he came out of the field house. He looked way too eager for Alex's comfort. Noting the other teammates milling around, Alex jerked his head towards the main building of the high school, indicating that Spike should follow him.

When they had gotten far enough from the others, Spike said, "Sooooo..."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "You wanted to ask me something?" _Maybe if I make it awkward enough, he'll realize how outlandish what he's thinking is, and let it drop._

"Are you Alex Friend?"

_So much for the power of positive thinking._ "And if I were?"

"Ooh, that's so cool." Spike had obviously taken Alex's response as confirmation. His mind had already been made up. "But what are you doing here? Are you investigating someone? One of the teachers?" Spike was never this hyper. Alex figured he must have been stewing on this all day, maybe longer.

"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm here... it's more like a witness protection program. No one is supposed to know I'm here. You can't tell anyone. _Anyone._ There have already been attempts to kill me. _Attempts._ Plural. I can't stress that enough."

"Sure, sure, but this is so cool. Do they give you gadgets?" Alex sighed. Suddenly, Spike was like a puppy, there was no dampening his enthusiasm.

"Look, I'm not allowed to talk about that stuff. What's more, I don't _want_ to talk about it. I still get nightmares."

"Nightmares? You? Dude, you jumped out of a plane! You snowboarded down a mountain on a freakin' ironing board!"

"Shush!" Alex said looking around. "Keep your voice down."

Spike lowered his voice to conspiratorial levels. "But how did you get them to accept you?" Alex felt his hands balling into fists.

"That's not how it happened."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't volunteer. I was drafted. _They_ seemed to think I was the only one who could find out why my uncle was killed."

That finally reined in Spike's enthusiasm. "So your uncle...?"

"Killed in the line of duty. I wasn't really interested in following him into the grave." _In for a penny, in for a pound._ Alex gave Spike a summary of his first two missions, plus the Wimbledon side project. He emphasized the terror, the danger, and the lack of support. He really didn't want Spike romanticizing his experiences. He feared losing a friend, and getting burdened with a fanboy.

"Does... does Sabina know?"

"Yes. And her parents. But you can't talk to them about it. If anyone knows that you know, the government could come down on you like a ton of bricks. They're trying to 'contain' the story."

"They're not doing a very good job of it, though, don't you think?"

"You're bloody well right, mate."

Spike glanced at his watch, and jumped up, "Shoot! I'm going to be late for dinner." He pulled out his phone and began checking for text messages. Then he kept poking and scrolling. After a moment, he started to mutter "not good, not good."

"Problem?" Alex finally asked.

"Emily..." Spike looked up at Alex like he had let him down.

A shiver of fear streaked down Alex's back. "Did something happen to her?"

"No, no, nothing like that. She posted... she posted that she knows kids who were ball boys at Wimbledon. That's bad, right?"

"Any names? Any pictures?" Alex asked urgently.

"Yeah, she uses your first names, and there is a picture. Of her and Sabina. It's hard to see on my phone, but that may be you in the background..."

"When was it posted?"

"Let's see... about 40 minutes ago. But there are already 2 comments..."

"We might still have time." Alex ripped his phone out of his backpack and quickly dialed. "Frank? Alex. No, nothing life threatening..." He glanced at Spike. "... at least, not yet. A friend posted an item connecting Sabina and me to Wimbledon... They know that's where we met... Yes, well, hindsight... right."

He continued. "Let me give you the link." Alex held out his hand for Spike's phone. After passing the information along, he returned the phone. "I really appreciate it... Let me know one way or the other... Thanks again."

He turned his attention back to the other boy. "Well, that's that. He'll see if he can get the toothpaste back in the tube."

"Who was that?"

"Um, your government is helping me keep a low profile. That's my contact."

"See?! That's so cool! You've got a spy on speed dial!"

Alex looked directly into his friend's eyes. When he was sure he had his full attention, he said, "Your sister may have put Sabina's life in danager. Not. Cool."

Spike swallowed. "Oh, right."

* * *

When Spike got home, he found his sister fuming. "Terms of service violation? What are they talking about? This sooo unfair. All my pictures!" _Wow, that was fast._

* * *

The man returned the phone to his pocket, and sat back in his chair. He had just concluded negotiations with remnants of the old Iraqi Republican Guard. Such were their reduced circumstances that a simple money laundering operation would prove quite lucrative, despite the low risk.

His name was Francois D'Ambrosio. He flicked a speck of dust off the cuff of his pure white silk suit. Rumors were that he never wore the same suit twice. Ridiculous, of course. At that rate, it would be simple to track his location by monitoring the finer haberdasheries. But he did discard the outfits for relatively minor blemishes. Money is power. And a display of power keeps the rabble from getting ideas.

He had once overheard one underling refer to him as "Mr. Clean." That smacked to D'Ambrosio of obsession, and obsession was weakness. The police had not found enough of the man for a positive identification. It wouldn't do for the organization to think there was any chink in his armor.

There was a knock at the door. "Enter." An analyst he barely recognized came in, clutching some papers to his chest. With a barely perceptible gesture, he dismissed the guard who had entered with him.

"Sir, we think we've found the boy."

"Go on."

"There was a posting on a social network referencing a Wimbledon ball boy named Alex."

The man in white's brow furrowed. "We have dozens of such vague 'sightings'. They've all been false alarms."

"Yes, sir. But the account in question has only two degrees of separation from a principal in one of the incidents. The journalist who was investigating Cray. Pleasure. Edward Pleasure."

"Yes, that does make it more interesting. But you sounded rather more sure of yourself than that would entail. There's more?"

The man swallowed. "Yes, sir. The connection between Pleasure and the poster is Pleasure's teenage daughter."

D'Ambrosio steepled his fingers. "Ah, there's a woman involved. Ever the downfall..."

"And, sir..." The man in white gestured to continue. "The account with the posting and several closely linked accounts were shut down within hours of the posting for TOS violations. Cached copies of the posting are no longer available."

"Ah, yes, the ham-handed fingerprints of the government at work. Well done. You are dismissed."

As the man opened the door to leave, he was faced with another man raising his fist to knock. "Ah, good. I was just going to call you. You've heard the news?"

The newcomer glared at the analyst. "Yes. Just now." The analyst scurried out. He continued, "Sir, you know I was planning on conducting this mission myself. But the Americans have me on their no-fly list. It would be safer for me to come in through Canada. But the delay..."

"Hmm, yes." Interjected the man in white.

"I was thinking it might be appropriate to contract this out."

D'Ambrosio nodded. "You're right. This has dragged on long enough. Make it so."

The man turned to go. "Don't forget," the man in white said. The other turned back. D'Ambrosio smiled. "Don't forget to send our condolences."

"Of course."

* * *

**A/N: I did not suddenly become a much faster writer. Most of this material is stuff that came to me out of order, and I typed it up as the muse inspired me, months ago. I had to warp the story slightly so that I could still use it. Lost a page or two of decent dialog. Sigh. This chapter burns up a good chunk of my stash.**

**Did anyone catch that I retrofit Spike with a ****_punname_**** last chapter? Wasn't originally intended. When casting about for a name for Alex's new bestest bud way back in the first chapter, I looked to the ****_Tom and Jerry_**** cartoons for inspiration. The name of the dog who appeared in some of the episodes was named Spike. (Which in turn led to the "that was the dog's name" ****_Indiana Jones_**** reference. My brain works in strange and mysterious ways.)**

**Anyway, when the teacher tells Spike to sit down, he calls him "Mr. Kidd". Spike Kidd. OK, it's not a particularly appropriate punname (Spike is not going to turn out to be a CIA plant), but it fits the theme and I liked it.**

**Once again, I appreciate all the support. Before starting this story, I did not understand how much I value external validation. Once I post a chapter, I'm checking the traffic stats and my email every half hour, it seems. I don't begrudge you your own procrastination, 'cuz I'm still bad at posting my own 'attaboy' reviews, but if you feel the urge, go with it. Might even speed the next chapter along!**


	11. Out with a Bang

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Out with a Bang**

Emily was still fuming the next day about the unfairness of it all. Customer support still wouldn't tell her why her account had been suspended, beyond a vague reference to the terms of service. She had read the terms twice, and still couldn't figure what she could have done to piss off anyone.

Alex figured they would eventually re-enable the account, and by that time Wimbledon would be old news.

* * *

Unfortunately, for the foreseeable future, Wimbledon was very fresh news. The James Bond references were flying fast and furiously. Alex had briefed Sabina on how to turn the conversation away from the Teenagent if anyone asked her about Wimbledon. She had a trove of brush-with-greatness stories to pull out at the drop of a hat. Not just the world-class tennis players, but the glitterati in the stands. Sabina had actually served as ball girl at Centre Court for two matches. That's where the big names played, and watched, even in the early rounds.

Alex had to keep his distance from Sabina to avoid being dragged into the conversation. It wouldn't do to remind anyone of his own connection to Wimbledon. By the end of the afternoon, Alex's nerves were taut with pent-up energy and emotion. He was grateful for soccer practice for a chance to work off his frustration, despite the miserable weather. The steady drizzle matched his mood well and cooled him off as he played hard. Perhaps he overdid it a bit, as the coach had to sit him down at one point as he knocked one player off the ball rather harder than he had intended. OK, to be honest, he'd lost it there for a minute, actually.

Alex looked up as the women's field hockey team headed to the field house, driven in by the increasingly heavy rain. The tennis team had given up twenty minutes earlier, probably because of puddles on the courts. Alex figured that meant he had probably missed his chance to sound out Emily and Sabina to see if Sabina had derailed Emily's interest in Wimbledon.

Very quickly, the clouds darkened even further, and the steady rain became a downpour. Moments later, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning. A few seconds after that, a clap of thunder shook Alex's teeth.

"OK, boys, I can take a hint," shouted the coach. "You, and you" pointing to a couple of Alex's teammates, "grab the cones and let's head in." Now, likely as not, Spike was going to pick up where the questioning left off the previous day. Alex almost regretted having to face Spike earlier than expected, but any longer in this rain would start to remind him of the Welsh countryside of Brecon Beacons. He was starting to shiver. He was not looking forward to the bike ride home. _Who am I kidding? I'm not looking forward to the conversation before the ride either._

Alex didn't bother getting changed; he would just get drenched again anyway. But he waited for Spike, who was hanging back – probably hoping for a chance to talk privately with Alex.

"Hurry up, guys! I have to lock up!" shouted the coach.

Spike looked warily at Alex. "I have to grab a book from my locker. You'll come with me?"

"Fine. My bike's locked up near the front door anyway." The rain had let up, but the two boys made a mad dash across the parking lot between the field house and the school. Like it would really save them from getting wet….

FWOOMP! When they were halfway across the parking lot, there was a massive explosion behind them. Alex felt like there he'd gotten a strong shove in the back. He almost stumbled. Spike did have to catch himself with his hands to keep from falling on his face.

A couple of the few remaining cars in the lot had their alarms blaring. Alex turned to see a huge cloud of smoke rising from the field house. Flames were already licking out of the window on the near side. That would have been the boys' changing room. "Coach!" Alex yelled and raced back toward the building.

As he approached the burning structure, Alex saw a figure lying face down on the grass. His heart dropped as he feared the worst. But as he got closer, he saw the figure begin to stir. It was Coach Johnston. "Coach! Coach! Are you OK?"

"Wha' hap'n?" The man was still shaken up.

"Coach? Was there anyone still inside?" Alex asked urgently. _God, please no._

"What? … No…. no… I'd… I already locked up. I was the last one… last one out." At this welcome news, Alex began to think clearly. Was this an accident? Or was it aimed at him? He suddenly felt very exposed, silhouetted against the flames.

Alex took charge. "We need to move away from the building. There may be more gas."

"Gas?" Coach Johnston was still a bit out of it. "What ga—"

"Whatever." Alex said brusquely. "Can you get up?" As the man started to rise, they found that some glass had cut the back of his right arm. It was not bleeding heavily, so it apparently had not cut anything vital. The way he was turning his head made it seem like he wasn't hearing properly out of his right ear.

As they got Coach settled safely away from the burning building, Alex turned to Spike and asked, "Do you have a phone? Can you call 999?"

Confusion briefly flickered on the American boy's face, but he quickly responded "Right, 911. Sure."

Alex turned towards the sound of running feet. "Whoa." "Jeez." "What happened?" "Anybody hurt?" Alex was torn about whether he should stay and help, or leave. If this _was_ an attack, perhaps it was not over. He might draw fire towards innocent bystanders if he stayed, but he would feel like a coward if he left, if this was truly an accident. He finally decided that if this were a Scorpia attack, they would probably have followed up during the initial confusion. He would focus on trying to help. He could hear sirens in the distance.

Alex dug his phone out of his bag and dialed McDeere. On the fourth ring, the agent picked up. "Alex?" Alex moved away from the prone soccer coach, but there were too many bystanders milling around to get any privacy.

"My name is Alex Pleasure. I'd like to report an explosion at my school."

"You're not alone, right Alex?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK, give me a sit-rep." Alex recapped the last few minutes, making it clear that he was not certain of the origin of the explosion. But he ended with the observation "If we hadn't ended practice early, my team and I would have been in the building at the time of the explosion." There were some gasps among onlookers who had been listening in on the conversation. This hadn't occurred to them.

"Look, Alex, you need to get out of there. But first… If this was an attack, it was a big and noisy one. It's designed to make a statement. That statement… that statement may include attacking first responders." Alex heard the sound of shuffling papers on the other end of the line. "Wait until the emergency services arrive and tell them it's a 'possible code four-fourteen'. This should tell them to take security measures, and secure the building as a potential crime scene. If they ask, tell them the dispatcher gave you the code. I'll try to get the message down official channels as well. I'll have a forensics team out there tonight. It's probably best if you don't go home tonight, just in case. Good luck."

A police car pulled up, followed closely by a fire truck. Alex tried to tell the first police officer about the Code 414, but he was too busy getting the gaggle of spectators to make room for the firemen. Alex flagged down one of the fireman. When Alex said his piece, the man looked at him as if he either didn't believe him, or he was speaking gibberish. Alex was beginning to get frustrated and, truth be told, a little frantic. At that moment, a fire chief pulled up in a sedan. "Sir! Sir!" Alex called, "The dispatcher said to tell you this was a possible Code 414." The chief's walkie-talkie crackled and he quickly conferred with the station. "Move that pumper back! Men, establish a 20-yard perimeter! No one goes in! Hear me?"

Satisfied that he done all that he could, Alex started to fade back into the crowd. Spike appeared at Alex's elbow. "What's a 414?"

"Uh, I'm not sure. The dispatcher said—"

"Cut the crap. I don't know who you were talking to, but I was talking to the dispatcher. What's a 414?" When Alex hesitated, he added, "I can look it up online when I get home."

"I think… I think it's a terrorist attack. I think… I think one where they set booby traps to deliberately injure first responders – firefighters, policeman, you know?" Alex licked his lips. "Just to be careful…"

"Because a cinderblock field house is such a symbolic target? Don't make me laugh. Was this aimed at... at you?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I need to call Sabina." He punched Sabina's contact in his favorites list, and heard the phone ring. After one ring, he heard "_Al?_"

"Sab? Where are you?"

"_Practice ended early. I'm over at Emily's. She's checking, uh, checking whether there's any more information about the Wimbledon story…_"

Alex started nodding to himself. "OK, I'm on my way over. You just stay there until I get there, OK? You don't, uh, you don't know where your parents are, do you?"

"_Dad's, no doubt, still at work, surely. I imagine Mom's home, making dinner. Why?_"

"I need to tell her where we're going to be. Stay there. See you soon." He quickly dialed the Pleasure's home number. "Liz?"

"_Hi, dear. Don't tell me you're going to miss dinner,_" Sabina's mother said warmly.

"Liz, I don't have time to explain, but could you meet me at Emily's house? Sabina is already there. I assume that Edward is still downtown?"

"_Yes. Alex, what's going on? You're scaring me._" Despite her words, Alex could hear her putting away the dinner she had been preparing. She was taking his request seriously.

"Could you ask him to stay downtown? There's been a... a fire, at school. I'm treating it as suspicious for now. I'd really like for the family to keep a low profile until I hear more. I'll see you soon."

* * *

It was three hours before Alex heard back from McDeere. In the meantime, he and Sabina's family had regrouped at a hotel in the Financial District. Alex was extremely grateful that he had decided to tell his full story to Liz and Edward. It made it much easier to convince them to go to ground until they learned more.

McDeere's information was inconclusive, but could be considered a positive sign. There had been no sign of the use of an accelerant. Frank explained that, while accelerants were commonly associated with arson, an incendiary bomb could be much more effective with the addition of an fuel source for the fire to burn hotter and faster. They also hadn't found traces of a device to trigger the explosion. Finally, the water heaters in the fieldhouse had been heated with natural gas. No one recalled smelling gas, but it was conceivable that there had been a build-up in the mechanical room that gone undetected.

Frank had to admit that it would have been a perfect time for an assassin to act in the immediate aftermath of the explosion. Unless they were extremely confident that the explosion was going to finish the job - or if they were determined that it had to look like an accident. Or it could just all be a horrible coincidence. Alex had thought he had lost the ability to believe in coincidences, but by morning he had convinced himself that he had overreacted. When Frank informed him that there would be a strong police presence at the school for the next few days, he made the decision to hold on to a normal life as long and as fiercely as he could.

* * *

Cecil entered the office that he wryly referred to as the "Public Relations Department" without knocking. Two of the operatives were there. "The Rider boy has been located. Release the Scorpia dossier."

* * *

You know that dream where you're sitting an exam, and you realize that you haven't studied the material being covered? It wasn't quite that bad, but with fifteen minutes left in the period most of the other students had already turned in their test papers. Alex was still struggling through the questions. He hadn't been able to focus on the review handouts last night, and even now his body felt as tight as a violin string ready to snap.

"Miss Feldman," hissed the teacher. The students who were already done were getting restless, and murmured conversations began to break out. Alex tried to block it out, but it took a real effort to turn off his hyper-vigilance. It certainly didn't let him relax enough to concentrate on answering the remaining questions. Students began to dig out various devices from where they were hidden. Use of electronics was not allowed during the school day, but if it was going to nip the conversations in the bud… The teacher decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and turned a blind eye.

Alex was finishing the second-to-last question when he heard a slight gasp. He looked up and caught Nora Feldman looking at him. She quickly looked away. Alex had a bad feeling, but returned to his test. "… look at this … no way … too cool …" A wave of hushed comments swept through the classroom.

The teacher had had enough. "Put those away, or I will have to confiscate them." He marched over to the worst offenders with his hand outstretched. Alex watched the interaction out of the corner of his eye, his test forgotten. An intense whispered conversation followed. Mr. Thompkins was studying the screen of the confiscated device intently.

Finally, Alex reached the end of his patience. He raised his head and looked squarely at his teacher. Mr. Thompkins returned his gaze with a look of utter disbelief. The man looked back and forth between the screen and Alex several times. _Bollocks! It's gone totally pear-shaped._

"I'm not feeling well. I'm going to see the school nurse." _Might as well keep up appearances, for all the good it will do._ It was not obvious that the teacher had even heard what Alex had said. The man remained rooted to the spot. Alex gathered his things, and made his way to the front of the classroom. Slapping his test paper on the teacher's desk, he turned for a last look at the class. Several of the students were filming him with their phones.

"You won't post any of that, if you know what's good for you. Tell your friends. You do not want to get involved." With that, he spun and darted out the door. He walked briskly down the hall until he came to the stairwell. He took the stairs three at a time. By the time he got to the first floor, he was in a full sprint.

He hit the crash bars on the main doors without pausing and raced to the bicycle rack. He freed his bike and struck out in a random direction, not wanting to think about the mess that his life had become.

Alex had rode several miles trying to convince himself that he had overreacted. He hadn't even asked them what they thought they knew. As he came upon a public park that he did not recognize, he was overcome with the need to confront his fears. He steered unto the broad lawn, hopping off the bike before it had come to a full stop. Letting the bike topple to the grass, he headed to a small copse of trees near a pond.

He pulled out his phone, and brought up a browser. Starting with "news for Point Blanc", he followed link after link. In horror, he saw his life laid bare across all the major news outlets. The British press focused primarily on Invisible Sword. The Americans zeroed in on Eagle Strike and the mysterious circumstances of Damian Cray's death.

Alex ignored the incoming phone calls, not even bothering to check the caller ID. He couldn't tear himself away from the train wreck of his life. Over the course of a couple of hours, a common narrative began to evolve across all the news sites: Alex Rider vs. Scorpia. The involvement of Yassen Gregorovich in Stormbreaker and Eagle Strike was emphasized to re-characterize both of those abominations as primarily Scorpia plots. The way the press counted, it was Alex Rider 5, Scorpia 0. They had compiled a body count of Scorpia board members. In addition to Rothman, Yu and Razim, they were placing the deaths of two more board members, Max Grendel and Levi Kroll, at his feet. He'd never even heard of them! This was madness! They made him sound like a mass murderer.

Considering the sheer quantity of top secret data that were vomited across the net, it was strange that Sarov, Drevin and McCain did not even get mentioned. Hugo Grief, the madman whose plot had put the newshounds on the scent, became a mere afterthought to the press. It made no sense to Alex, unless journalists as a class were embarrassed that a major terrorist organization had been allowed to fly below the radar for so long.

With a jolt, he realized that he had been so self-absorbed, he hadn't been thinking about the people around him. He started adding search terms like "Pleasure", "Brookland", and "California". The first couple of searches didn't generate obvious matches – then the battery on his phone died. _Idiot! I've left them defenseless! They might not even know they're in danger! I've got to get back…_

He made his way back to his bicycle. Three boys were gathered around it.

"Oi! Get away from that! That's mine!" Alex shouted as he approached the trio.

"It's mine now," smirked the biggest of three.

"I don't have time for this," said Alex through gritted teeth. "Back away now, and I won't have to hurt you."

"Looks like you can't count, buddy. Leave now and _we'll_ let you keep your teeth. And maybe we'll leave the bike here when we're done with it."

Seething, Alex decided to give them one more chance. Turning to the other two, Alex calmly said "OK, mate, are you going to talk some sense into your friend here?"

"Shove off, you foreign bastard," one of them said as the others laughed.

"As long as it's unanimous," Alex said in a resigned way. "Remember, violence is never the answer." He took a calming breath. "Violence is the question – 'yes' is the answer." Alex erupted into motion: palm-heel strike to the chest, snap kick to the knee, jab to the solar plexus – and all three were down. One, two, three.

Grabbing the bike, Alex jumped on and began pedaling furiously towards home, as the sun dropped below the surrounding hills. His mind was racing just as frenetically as his legs as he rode into the deepening gloom.

As Alex turned the corner, his stomach turned to ice as he saw red and blue strobe lights of the four police cars in front of the Pleasure's house lighting up the trees overhanging the road. There was a large crowd of people standing on the lawn, spilling into the street. Images of violence flashed in his mind; he could vividly imagine Sabina lying in a growing pool of blood. He hurried forward.

He dumped his bicycle on the neighbor's lawn and began elbowing his way towards the front door. At the outer fringes of the crowd, he could slide between the adults, but as he made his way forward, he had to shove people aside. This produced some angry cries, but most of the people's attention was fixated on the front door. He needed to find the police to get some answers. He was becoming frantic.

His efforts started to attract the attention of the closest onlookers. After a few moments, someone cried "It's him! Alex, over here!" Alex turned towards the unfamiliar voice. Suddenly, a microphone was thrust towards his face. "Alex, did you kill Damian Cray?" _What the bloody hell?_ "Are you Alex Friend?" "Alex, Alex Rider, over here!"

Almost like a single organism, the crowd immediately re-oriented on Alex. Camera flashes began popping in a continuous stream. Questions were hurled at him so quickly that there was no hope of answering them even if he had wanted to. More and more microphones were being shoved in his face.

Time seemed to slow down as Alex realized that one of the devices being shoved towards him was not like the others. "GUN!" he roared. His hand flashed out and forced the weapon into the air. A shot rang out and the crowd closest to Alex fell away in a panic, arms and legs sprawling everywhere. Alex took the opportunity to step in and elbow the gunman in his exposed ribs. He twisted the gunman's wrist and performed a leg sweep. Keeping the wrist trapped in his hand bent at an unnatural angle, he wrested the gun away with his other hand and pointed it down at his attacker.

Who he could now see was a teary-eyed teenage girl.

Compared to the clamor of a few moments earlier, Alex could almost believe the gunshot had rendered him deaf. The crowd had still not processed the sudden attack. Then the girl wailed "You k-k-killed Damian!"

"BLOODY HELL!" Alex screamed down at the weeping girl. "What part of NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST do you not understand?"

Alex let go of the girl. He engaged the safety on the gun, ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and removed the slide. He then dropped the pieces of the gun to the ground. Throughout the procedure, he didn't take his eyes off the girl. To those unfamiliar with firearms, it looked as though the gun disintegrated in his hands.

Looking up across the crowd that was still trying to figure out whether it was safe to stand, Alex spotted the policemen who had been performing crowd and traffic control at the edges of the mob. Only one of the officers had drawn their firearm.

"Oi! You lot! Make yourselves useful!" He turned towards the house. "Yeah, impound those cameras," he muttered.

He was halfway to the front door before the crowd found its voice again. The reporters had given up trying to ask questions and just shouted "Alex! Alex, over here!" trying to get him to look towards the cameras. "Alex what happened to Damian Cray?"

Over his shoulder, he spat, "Cray? Didn't you know? He's living with Tupac in Elvis' guest house."

As Alex reached for the handle of the front door, the door was wrenched open from the inside. Sabina gave him a brief hug, whispered "oh alex" in a small voice, and pulled him inside.

Alex closed the door with his bottom, and leaned the back of his head against the door and closed his eyes. He was trembling slightly from the adrenaline coursing through his body. He opened his eyes and looked at Sabina, his lips pressed firmly shut. Sabina nodded her head slightly towards the living room. Alex did not want to acknowledge the people he had seen in his peripheral vision, but he knew he couldn't put it off.

Deciding to face this head on, Alex took one quick settling breath, and strode towards the living room. Edward Pleasure was sitting on the sofa across from two men. From the notepad in the hands of one, and the camera around the neck of the other, it didn't take a spy to figure out who they were.

Before any of them could say anything, Alex took the initiative. "Allow me to perform the introductions. S#!+, meet fan. Fan, s#!+." Edward gave a brief, tight smile. "_Language..._," he muttered.

"Alex, these men are from my magazine. I have to ask…"

"Mr. Pleasure—Edward—I appreciate everything you've done for me. And I'm truly sorry for bringing this down on you. But I don't think it's a good idea for me to make a statement right now. However, I understand that you have to do what you have to do. There will be no hard feelings from my side with whatever you decide."

"Thank you, Alex."

A thought occurred to Alex. "Did you have anyone stationed outside? To cover my grand entrance?"

"No. Why?"

"Bollocks. OK, I won't have you penalized for treating me like a person instead of a meal ticket. You missed the assassination attempt."

"WHAT!"

"Apparently, even after your book, Cray still has some devoted fans. OK, this is not for attribution, no quotes, right? Some witless git of a girl decided to decorate your front stoop with my gray matter. I sort of disarmed her, while your colleagues in the press studiously stuck their thumbs up their arses." Alex glanced at his watch. "You'll probably be able to see film at 11:00."

"Oh, and she didn't have much of a manifesto. I think in its entirety it was 'You kuh kuh killed Damian.'"

"That's two extra 'kuh's" he added, nodding towards the notepad. "And I think her statement could fairly be described as a 'piteous wail.' Or is it 'pitiful'? Anyway, I came back with 'What part of nuclear holocaust don't you understand?' And that was delivered in… a manly growl. Not buying it? OK, OK. How about 'angry snarl'? I'm pretty sure I can pull off an angry snarl. Oh, and I think I cursed – so I'm probably in hot water with the FCC. I suspect all of that went out live."

"I got a little snippy with the police, who were bloody useless during the whole episode, then marched inside. That's about it."

The door bell rang. "That will be the boys in blue. I guess I'm back on the clock."

Alex let Mr. Pleasure answer the door. The man showed two officers into the living room. Alex looked Edward in the eyes and asked, "Could we have a little privacy?" His eyes took in the reporter and photographer as he asked his question.

Edward started a little. "What? Oh, of course. Um, Bob, Steve could you…?" He started leading the men towards the kitchen. Sabina backed two steps towards the hall, and then turned and made her way into the study.

One of the officers offered "Perhaps your father should stay?"

Alex quickly shot back "He's not my – he's not required, is he?"

"No, I suppose not. But we would like you to come down to the station to make a statement. As a minor, you should have a parent there…."

"Am I under arrest?"

"No, no. You were the victim here. But we need to file an incident report, and…"

"I think I should wait until I have legal representation. I will come to the station when that has been arranged. You can understand, I'm rather shaken up by the incident outside." Alex didn't bother matching his tone to his words. It was obvious the officers didn't believe him either.

"OK, well, then in that case, I guess we'll be going…" The senior officer began moving towards the front door. The younger policeman was a bit slow to move. He opened his mouth once, shut it, then started again.

"Um, is it really true that you rode down a mountain on an _ironing_ board? Under fire?" he finally spit out.

"Beg pardon? What are you on about? No, never mind, I'm not making any statements tonight."

The officers opened the front door to a burst of camera flashes. Sounds of "Alex! Alex!" could be heard coming from the lawn. A figure in a dark windbreaker emblazoned with the letters FBI on the back slipped through the open door. He gave one last instruction to the officers on the porch, and turned to Alex. It was McDeere.

"Frank. You working for the FBI now?"

The agent looked down at the jacket. "Oh, you mean this? I got this off the discount rack. Geez, kid, you know how to throw a coming out party. Are you OK?"

Alex sighed. "Yeah… no… I don't know."

"Well, as long as we've got that cleared up…" McDeere stopped talking; his attention had been drawn to a long box, sitting half opened on the hallway table. He stepped quickly to the box and flipped the lid off. Inside were two dozen black roses. Frank rifled through the tissue paper to come up with a card.

"Hmm. 'Our condolences on your loss.' Do you know the story here?" He looked intently at the teen.

"I just got home. They weren't here when I left for school. What's the matter?"

"Maybe nothing. Could you ask your… the Pleasures?"

Liz and Edward couldn't shed any light on the flowers' provenance. They had been delivered in the morning before all hell had broken loose. "I guess the sender forgot to sign it."

"OK, … thanks," McDeere said distractedly. He pulled out his phone and paced into the study. Alex followed him into the room. "… black flowers … have to move …" After a couple of minutes of intense discussion, the agent disconnected with an abrupt stab of his finger.

"The flowers have you spooked. What's up?" Alex asked warily.

"Black flowers, an unsigned card… these are the calling card of an assassin known only as the Gentleman."

"He sends a warning to his target? I'm on his hit list?" Alex had gone numb. He'd already been shot at once tonight, but somehow he could dismiss the act of rank amateur. Knowing a professional had him in his sights was all too chilling.

"No, see that's the thing… he sends the flowers to the family _after_ he makes the hit. All so genteel – it's how he got his _nom de guerre_. The man – well, they assume it's a man – is a consummate professional. He never misses. Gregorovich may have been in the same league, but there aren't many others with a reputation as spotless as his. Don't even have a description of the guy."

"And now due to that media circus outside, he knows he missed. He's going to want to clean up his mess quickly, before his clientele sees he has feet of clay. We've got to sneak you out the back—"

"No," Alex interrupted. He closed the study door. "If I'm a target, it's got to be clear I'm out of the house. That I'm not with the Pleasures. We go out the front."

Frank silently studied the boy—no, the young man. Finally, he gave a sharp nod. "I get it. OK, give me twenty minutes to set it up. Perhaps you should say your good-byes."

Alex found Sabina in the kitchen. She was watching the TV with the sound turned off. As she flipped through the channels, likely as not she could find some plastic-faced pod person doing a stand-up news report in front of the house. She had already seen Alex disarm the crazy Damian Cray fan three times. Each time her breath caught in her throat.

"Sab?"

"Oh, Alex." She got up and ran into his arms. "Oh, Alex. You almost… you almost…"

"Hey, there. It's OK. I'm fine. Everything's going to be fine. But Sab… I've got to go."

"Go?" Sabina asked as though the word had no meaning for her.

"It's not safe here for me. And it's not safe for you to have me here. There's reason to be believe that there will be another attempt."

"The police can keep the crazies away. Why do we have to leave?"

"Not 'we'. Me. I've got to go. It's me they want." They made their way upstairs to Alex's room. He threw some underwear, a pair of pants, shirts, his charger into a small bag. He grabbed a picture of himself and Jack, one of Ian, and a two with Sabina. He was going to be leaving with even less than he had brought from Chelsea. Maybe some day he would be able to come back and get the rest of his stuff. He took a lingering look at this last semblance of a normal life, then took Sabina's hand. Together, they made their way downstairs.

Liz and Edward were at the bottom of the stairs. Alex tried to smile, but it looked out of place on his face. "Sir, I just want you to know that I understand that you will have additional expenses to maintain your privacy and security. Anything that I told you, anything that your lawyers will let you use, you... you have my permission."

Sabina's father started to protest, "I would never-"

"Sir... Edward," Alex interrupted, "better you than that lot," as he gestured to the front door. The boy turned to the living room where Frank and four other men were wearing FBI jackets and bullet proof vests. Each was carrying a helmet. Frank grabbed another vest from a chair and handed it to Alex.

Alex shrugged on the vest and fastened it closed. Frank offered a helmet, but Alex waved it off. "Let them see that I'm not afraid," he said with a slight smirk. He then he patted the vest, "but not stupid, either." He turned to Sabina and stepped close enough to hold her arms lightly. He moved his hands to her face, tracing the lines of her jaw. He looked intently into her eyes, memorizing her every feature. Then he leaned in, and kissed her deeply. He then bent and touched his forehead to hers. "Be safe."

The men formed themselves into a wedge. Frank said "We're a go," into the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. And with that the group waded into the media circus outside the house.

The door closed cutting off the noise from the gaggle of reporters. There was a moment of comparative silence then, with a cry of "Oh, Daddy!", Sabina threw herself into her father's arms and began to cry quietly.

* * *

**A/N: Another quick turnaround. Don't get used to it. Found another big scene that I had written a while ago that didn't suck. I can see the seams where I had to patch it in, but I'm hoping they're not too obvious to you, my readers.**

**OK, the Truth did "Out", as advertised. But it's not the end of the story. Now that the truth is out, is Alex still in danger? What does Cecil have up his sleeve (besides a burned wrist)? How will the wider world react? Plus, there is one mystery in the Rider-verse that has always bugged me. Find out what it is, and my answer, in the next episode.**


	12. Homeward Bound

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.**

* * *

**Homeward Bound**

Alex looked out the window at the street twelve floors below for the tenth time in half an hour. He didn't know what he expected to see, after the madness outside the Pleasures' home, it felt wrong for it to look so quiet, so normal.

He had thought they would take him to some sort of CIA safe house, but instead they had gone directly to the British Consulate-General in downtown San Francisco. Now he was waiting to meet with the Consul General. Maybe he would get a hint of what lay in his immediate future.

The door opened and two people entered - the man who had gotten Alex settled in the office and a slim woman of Indian descent. She strode forward and extended her hand. "Alex - may I call you Alex? - I'm Margaret Gupta. I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. I've been on the phone with London trying to get you situated. I must say, if half of what I've read about you is true, it is an honor to meet you."

Alex shook his head ruefully. "You can ignore the unlikely, improbable and implausible half. The impossible, insane and ludicrous bits are mostly true."

The Consul General politely acknowledged the attempt at levity, and mirrored the shaking of the boy's head. "My daughters will be disappointed that I'm going to miss the opportunity to interrogate you. But despite all the information that has been leaked to the press, I'm probably not cleared for most of the juicy bits. I'll have to contain myself."

"Now, down to business. I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to offer you the chance to get a good night's sleep after your trying day. The Americans have requested that we repatriate you 'at our earliest convenience'."

Alex was shocked. "They're... _deporting_ me?"

"They stopped short of demanding it, but it was a very strong suggestion."

"But, but why?"

"Ostensibly, they believe that - in light of the attempt on your life - you would be safer in England."

Alex prompted, "Ostensibly?"

Gupta smiled, "Yes. The ambassador believes the real reason is they want to avoid having you subpoenaed by a congressional investigation. My understanding is that their CIA had some... involvement, no?"

"You could say that...," Alex said tentatively.

"At this point, you probably can't avoid a parliamentary inquiry. As an exercise in political kabuki, it probably won't be the most pleasant experience. But a congressional hearing is more like a political... rodeo. They consider it a success if you last eight seconds. The Foreign Minister agrees it is probably wise to get you back to England as soon as possible. Arrangements are being made now. I'm sorry, but you'll probably need to fly out tonight."

Alex felt like he should object to decisions being made about his life without conferring with him, but he had nowhere else to go. He returned to the window to look down at the street once again.

* * *

It was past 1:00 in the morning and the events of the day were really weighing Alex down. But at least they were finally on the move.

When the elevator reached the parking garage, a town car was waiting. His escort quickly hustled him into the back seat. Seconds later the car was moving. The man in the passenger seat turned towards Alex. "I thought I'd seen the last of you, Alex."

"Frank." The teen leaned forward to see the driver better. "Helena. You guys always get the crap details?"

"Well, you know, when your supervisor says 'tell me what you really think' it really means 'tell me what I already believe'…" He gave Alex a warm smile that let him know he wouldn't have let anyone else take this duty away from him.

"I see you finally let Helena drive."

"I saw the error of my sexist ways—"

"Don't believe him, Alex. I signed out the only remaining armored vehicle in the motor pool before he thought of it. He's only here because I took pity on him and let him tag along."

Alex grew serious. "So what's the plan?"

"They didn't brief you?" Helena asked in mild surprise.

"They never tell me anything. I'm just a kid, remember?" he said with a trace of bitterness.

"A helicopter and several ground vehicles have been assigned as decoys. Right now, we are on our way to Travis Air Force Base. From there, you will be flying to DC, then across the pond to merry olde England."

Alex thought for a moment. "Will there be a layover in Washington?"

"Yes, I'm fairly certain," responded McDeere. "Why?"

"I'm not sure when I'll be able to get back to the States. There are some people I would like to see before I leave the country. I don't have an address, but I've got a phone number. Do you think I could have a few hours to track them down?"

"I don't think that is a very good idea, Alex. You are very much in the public eye right now. You can't just turn up your collar and expect people not to recognize you. And our government is responsible for your safety right now. I don't think we can take the risk."

Alex let the disappointment show on his face. His shoulders slumped as he shrunk into the corner of the back seat. Frank pursed his lips and said "Give me the phone number. I'll see what I can do from this end." _Looks like I can get a few more months out of the 'little boy lost' routine,_ thought Alex.

Alex could gauge how quickly his fame was spreading by the reaction of the airmen at each stage of his journey to Washington. The guard at the front gate of Travis only scanned his face as part of reviewing the paperwork that McDeere had handed him. The steward in charge of the VIP lounge where Alex waited with the two agents did a double-take on seeing Alex arrive. The two marines who were deadheading on the same flight were openly gawking. And the airmen who rolled the flight steps up to plane upon landing were totally gobsmacked. Frank had been right; it did not bode well for him being able to discretely slip off to the DC suburbs.

Alex had gotten a little nap on the flight, but was still struggling with the effects of jet lag. The sky was turning a pink-orange as the sun threatened to peek over the horizon. At the bottom of the flight steps, a man was waiting in a flight suit. "Alex, I'm Colonel Hastings. Do you have all your stuff? Great. Please follow me." He grabbed Alex's bag and began making his way toward a large helicopter sitting fifty yards away. As they started towards the helicopter, its rotors began turning. Soon they were up to full speed.

"Did you have a good flight?" asked the officer.

"Yes. I was able to catch a little sleep." Alex had to raise his voice to be heard over the chopper.

"I was told you wanted to go visit … unfortunately …" Alex could not hear the bad news, but he could tell that the man was trying to be sensitive, within the limits of his military bearing. He had already given up the idea as a childish whim.

"I understand it was a bad idea." Alex was practically shouting now.

"WHAT? WAIT!" They had reached the helicopter. There were two flight helmets sitting on the floor, just inside the open door. Hastings grabbed one and handed it to Alex, then put one on himself. He pulled a microphone down in front of his mouth.

Alex got his helmet on. It was a little big for him, but he could adjust the straps later. The colonel reached over a flipped a switch on the side of the helmet. "There that's better. The mic's here. Now, what was that?"

"I said 'I understand.'" Alex had gotten a glimpse of the inside of the inside of the helicopter. It was not the simple metal benches with a clip line running down the side that he was expecting. This helicopter was richly appointed, with leather seats and a small bar – more like a luxury limo than a helicopter. It was practically... presidential. _Oh, no. Couldn't be._

Hastings made his way to the pilot's seat. "This is Tango Foxtrot One Niner, ready for immediate departure." There was a slight pause. "Roger." Alex found himself relaxing slightly. He knew that the presidential helicopter's call sign was "Marine One".

"For a minute there, I thought this was Marine One," Alex said, not wanting to distract the pilots, but feeling the need to say something in relief.

"It's only Marine One when the President is on board. Oh, and I was told to tell you 'Treat it better than Air Force One'." The helmet covered most of the pilot's head, but Alex thought he detected a raised eyebrow.

"That wasn't my fault!" _I did not just whine!_ thought Alex. _I must be more tired than I thought._

"So the rumors are true?"

"Classified," replied the boy curtly, leaning his head against the window.

As the helicopter reached altitude, Alex saw the DC skyline in the distance, with the distinctive shape of the Washington monument and the Capitol building. Their flight path was not taking them any nearer. "We're not heading into the city?" asked the teen.

"No, we'll be at camp in less than half an hour. But you can catch some shut-eye if you're still sleepy. I'll wake you when we come in for our approach."

"Thanks." He was asleep less than a minute later.

Alex awoke in time to see the helicopter descending. When he had heard 'camp', in his mind's eye he had seen Brecon Beacons – rough huts, dirt paths, and buildings with tin roofs. If not that, he would not have been surprised to see a neatly trimmed military installation like the air force base they had just left. What lay before him looked more like the cross between a luxury resort and a hunting lodge.

He rubbed his face, hoping to chase away the jet lag. He could see people moving through the area. Most of them had civilian garb. Some of them had the look of security personnel, though they were dressed more formally than most of the muscle he had encountered. "What camp is this?"

"This is Camp David." _Of course._ Camp David was the presidential retreat outside of Washington. He should have grilled Colonel Hastings about the meeting schedule when he had the chance.

* * *

Shortly after landing, the marine colonel passed Alex off to a presidential aide named Coswell. Alex didn't catch the man's first name. It probably was part of his role as chaperon to the president's guests. He could give Crawley a run for his money as a colorless drone.

The pair entered a lodge a short distance from the helipad. Coswell led Alex past a large area dominated by a central fireplace, probably used for informal receptions. They went down a corridor past several rooms that were casually furnished in a rustic style. They stopped at a closed door. "Now," said the aide, "we weren't entirely sure how much you wanted to tell them." _How much I wanted to tell them? Who—? Cos_well continued, "We'll give you some privacy." He opened the door.

Two figures were seated in matching armchairs with their backs to the door. The turned towards the sound of the opening door, and Alex's breath hitched in his throat. He had only met them once, when he was nine, but he'd seen their pictures many, many times. Jack's parents.

"Alex?" questioned Mr. Starbright. "This just gets stranger and stranger. They brought you here too? These fellas in dark suits and sunglasses show up at our cabin on the Chesapeake saying we've been invited to Camp David. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I swear, if they hadn't had the sheriff with them, I would have thought it was some sorta prank. But I've been playing poker with him for years, and I can read his face like a book. But they haven't told us a gosh-darned thing. Have they told you what's going on?"

"Dear, if you'd let him get a word in edgewise," interjected Mrs. Starbright, "maybe he could answer a question."

Alex knew that Mr. Starbright had had a stroke a few months earlier, and it seemed like he was recovering physically. But the teen couldn't help but feel that both of them looked… _diminished_… compared to the photos he had seen of them. He supposed it could be due to age, but with a pang of guilt he realized how hard Jack's loss must have been on them, too. No parent should outlive their child. He hoped he wasn't here to make it worse. "I guess you haven't been following the news?" he queried.

They looked at him quizzically, and shook their heads. Jack's father said, "We go to the cabin to get away from all that. Don't even have an answering machine."

"Well, it's my fault you're here," explained Alex. "I asked to speak with you, in person, but I kind of expected them to let me go to you – not have them bring you to me."

"_Let_ you? You're not in any sort of trouble are you?"

"No, no," he assured them. "Or—well, yes. But not any kind of trouble that you're likely to be thinking of. I'm in… protective custody, I suppose."

"Look, I don't know how much time we'll have, but I have to… I have to tell you the real story of Jack's death. She died a hero's death, trying to save my life." Mrs. Starbright grasped her husband's hand. "They wouldn't let me tell you before now. But the truth is coming tumbling out now, and I wanted you to hear it from me—rather than getting a butchered version from the news."

"This is all going to sound like a fever dream. I suppose that it is good that we met here, perhaps the setting will lend my story some credibility. Here it goes…"

"My uncle was a spy. Jack and I were living in blissful ignorance while he was out risking his life for Queen and country. One day those risks caught up with him. MI6… um, the British intelligence service, OK, you know… asked me to pick up where he had left off." A look of horror mixed with disbelief crossed Mrs. Starbright's face. Her husband was just stunned. "Yes, yes, it sounded insane to me, too. But, but they were going to deport Jack, send me to an orphanage. I... I couldn't lose Jack."

"Against all the laws of probability, I was successful. So they sent me back out again. And again. And again. I was just supposed to keep my eyes open, and report back. Or just act as window dressing, as someone else did the real work. It was never that simple. Some of it has started to leak into the press… but I'm still not sure how much I'm allowed to tell you. Just know that… lives were saved. Many, many lives. But I didn't do it for glory, or out of patriotism. I did it for Jack. So that I wouldn't lose Jack."

"Did Jack know?"

"She knew that MI6 had me on a leash. Several times we thought we had slipped the chain, only to get drawn back in. I messed up some plans of some pretty nasty people. I made some enemies."

Jack's father sputtered, "But, but you're just a kid!"

"Sir, that made it worse. They lost face." Alex ran his hands through his hair. "I wanted you to know that Jack loved you both very much. Of course... of course, you know that. What I mean is that Jack wanted to work out a way to come back and help you during your difficulties. We were discussing it, but I was selfish. I asked her to stay longer and... and it got her killed. I'm so, so sorry. But you should know that she died trying to save my life. She never gave up." Alex hung his head.

Mrs. Starbright crossed the space between them and caught him up in a hug. "Alex! Alex, Jack was never more proud than when she was talking about you. She was always strangely vague when we pressed for details. She said you were a private boy. I guess she was right. But she loved you very deeply."

Alex pulled himself together. "I know she did. She could have left months earlier. She should have left. I miss her so, so much."

The door to the room opened, and Coswell entered. "Mr. Rider, the President will see you now." Alex gave Mrs. Starbright one last hug, and shook Mr. Starbright's hand. He started to turn away, but stopped and turned back. "One last thing… what was the name 'Jack' short for?"

Mr. Starbright snorted. Mrs. Starbright smiled and shook her head. "It wasn't short for anything. Jack picked the name herself. She made us call her that from the time she was ten. Had her name legally changed when she was eighteen," she said wistfully.

Mr. Starbright chimed in. "I suppose you could say it was short for 'Crackerjack'." I used to call her 'my little crackerjack', because of her energy. My grandfather used to call me that." He was getting a little teary again.

"No, dear," Jack's mother said, patting her husband's arm, "that's not it." She turned to Alex. "We named her Gwendolyn. Can you picture her as 'Gwendolyn Starbright'? She always said we might as well have named her 'Tinkerbell'. She saw herself more as one of the pirates than one of the pixies. No pink tutus or E-Z Bake ovens for her. That was our Jack." Her eyes became a little unfocused. "I think it was Jack from _Jack and the Beanstalk_ that gave her the idea for the name."

"Jack the Giant Killer?" asked Alex.

"Jack the Giant Killer," replied the woman, nodding gently. Alex smiled, shaking his head as he left the room.

* * *

Alex was led into another room that had the same rustic homeyness of the previous, though a little more richly appointed. That was probably explained by the presence of the leader of the free world.

"Mr. President, I would like to introduce Alex Rider." The president strode forward and grasped the boy's hand. He looked directly in the boy's eyes. He was beaming.

"I certainly recognize the boy who has pushed me off every front page in the world. It's almost like a vacation." The force of his personality filled the room. His confidence and control was writ large. It was a familiar feeling for the boy - after all, he'd met a lot of men with out-sized personalities. He hoped the feeling wasn't a bad sign.

"Alex," the President said, turning serious, "I want you to know how much we appreciate what you have accomplished. Without you, my entire administration would have been defined by our attempts to contain the fallout – literal and figurative – from the conspiracies you were able to root out and stop. Every positive policy initiative that we have been able to implement ultimately owes a debt to you."

Alex thought about this statement for a moment. "Sir, if I may make a suggestion? You should focus on mental health services for billionaires."

The President gave Alex a rueful smile. "And do you have any suggestions on how to implement this?"

Alex paused again. "Have me spend a weekend around them. If they can go 48 hours without trying to kill me, they're probably OK."

"I'll have to take that under advisement. Though I'll warn you, this is not the environment for getting healthcare reform legislation through Congress."

The President led Alex to the other end of the room near the window where there was a small measure of privacy from the staffers. "Alex, I wanted to extend a special thank you for your work on the Ark Angel incident." Alex started when he heard the sound of a camera shutter. The President put a calming hand on Alex's shoulder. "Ignore them," he murmured, "it's their job."

"When we learned about the threat of Ark Angel, certain protocols were triggered. I was hustled off to Air Force One - the _backup_ Air Force One." Alex grimaced. "Those protocols do not include notifying the majority of my staff. I had to leave them behind, leave behind their families. From what I've been briefed about you, you are not one to run away from danger. Running did not sit well with me either. I am grateful - I am _personally_ grateful for what you accomplished."

"Mr. President? They're ready for you in the Situation Room." The President acknowledged the man with a nod, and turned his gaze back to Alex. "No rest for the wicked. Once again, I wish to extend my nation's thanks and my personal gratitude for all you've done. Maybe when the smoke has cleared and the dust has settled, we can have a formal ceremony."

Bemused, Alex stared at the closed door for a minute. He slowly became aware that he was not alone in the room. He turned and found himself face to face with a graying African American man sitting in one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace. "Mr. Byrne. Let me guess, are you the Ghost of Christmas Future?"

There was a glint in the man's eye. "I suppose you could say that. It's good to see you again, Alex. How did your meeting with the Starbrights go?"

"Did you arrange that? If so, thank you."

"Yes, McDeere called me. I was glad to help. Honestly, when I saw you in Cairo I wasn't sure you'd be able to bounce back. I got a sense of what Ms. Starbright must have meant to you."

Alex's face was impassive. "I'm dealing with it. This time in the States... it didn't last long, but it was what I needed. A last taste of normal life, before..." He shook his head. "So, what do you think is going to happen to me? I mean, when I get back to England. I can scarcely imagine that I'll just be allowed to pretend this never happened, just waltz back to school. The parent council would have a fit."

The older man met the teen's eyes. "First, your government has to decide what to make of you. They still haven't made a formal statement, though they are well past the point where stonewalling has any hope of being effective." The deputy director gave a small sardonic smile. "Your little outburst at that pathetic girl with the gun outside your home is being taken as an admission."

The man continued before Alex could respond. "Whatever your government may wish, it will probably have its hand forced by the press. And there... I see it going one of three ways: casting you as a hero, a victim, or a monster."

"Monster!" the boy spat as he leaped to his feet. "What are you on about?"

"Calm down. I'm in your corner. I'm just giving you my assessment. Some of the tabloids have taken an unholy interesting in tabulating your body count. If they decide it will sell more papers, they'll look at those bat-sh** crazy megalomaniacs and see a philanthropist who wanted to give away computers, a schoolmaster, a pop star, a space entrepreneur, a toy mogul, a relief worker... My god, you were trained as an assassin and you shot the prime minister! Not in that order, sure, but Fleet Street is not going to let a few inconvenient facts get in the way of a good story. And it wouldn't be a stretch to cast a skeptical shadow over the story that someone who happened to look _just like you_ was pointing a sniper rifle at the Secretary of State."

Alex sank back into his chair, feeling slightly nauseated. "But... but they were trying to kill me! They would have killed thousands! Maybe millions!"

"Relax. I don't think it will come to that. That's a worst-case scenario. There may be a new occupant at 10 Downing St., and theoretically he could rack up some political points by painting the previous government in the worst possible light. But as a practical matter, there are too many holdovers from the previous set of ministers for them to risk the blowback. He may have sacked Blunt over this-"

"So, Blunt's really gone?"

"Yes. And while the PM may have sacked him over the way you were handled, he did promote Jones. That's hardly going to insulate him from the backbenchers' backbiting. One thing you need to keep uppermost in your mind: you were never given a gun."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Alex asked tentatively.

"All the gadgets you were given were primarily designed to collect information, to escape or incapacitate - not kill. If the press or a political faction try to demonize you, it will be as a child soldier. Or worse, as a child assassin. But no one sends in an assassin armed only with x-ray specs and smoke bombs. This may have even saved your life."

Alex frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If you had been found with a gun, that would have forced your captors to take you more seriously. Perhaps just put a bullet in your brain and be done with it. But since Blunt didn't seem to take you seriously, then they didn't have to either. And look where that left them."

Alex sucked the side of his cheek. "Do you really think the press will try to paint me in a bad light? And what did you mean by hero or victim?"

"The press will tell whatever story will sell their rags. Some will tear you down, some will canonize you. Some factions in the government will seize on these narratives if they match their own agendas."

"And I just have to wait and see how this plays out?"

"Well, no. If you want to control the narrative, you have to wage a charm offensive."

"Charm offensive?" Alex asked.

"Look, you're well-spoken, intelligent, fit, young... and people want to hear your story. If you take an active role in shaping the story, you will have the greatest leverage of anyone. Obviously, as the public gets to know you, they'll understand just how much you've given to keep others safe. In the American west, there is a phrase 'rode hard and put away wet'. I know you didn't always get the support you needed, but I believe that if you let yourself be portrayed as a victim, you'll be handing the reins over to others."

"Sure, you can use the role of victim to your advantage. If you want to force Jones, Brooke or myself into retirement, you could probably do so." He snorted. "I doubt Jones or Brooke are making long-term career plans just now. I know I'm not."

"Obviously, this is self-serving. But I really believe that if you let yourself by seen as a victim, you will lose the ability to choose your own path. Think about it." With that, the man got up and moved to the door. Stopping with his hand on the doorknob, he said, "Whatever you decide, Alex, thank your for your service. We understand that we asked more of you than anyone had any right to, and you ended up paying a huge cost. But don't lose sight of the enormous good you were able to accomplish."

"Good luck."

* * *

**A/N: So, there's my version of the ****_Just So Story_**** "How Jack Got Her Name".**

**Another chapter without any action. I hope it doesn't feel like it's dragging. But I really wanted Alex to meet with Jack's parents.**


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